


Night Shift

by detour



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky is a nurse, Canon-Typical Violence, Food mentions, Identity Porn, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, and they were ROOMMATES, some description of a significant injury, too many Batman references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detour/pseuds/detour
Summary: As a nurse on the night shift, Bucky knows he’s missed out on a lot. The latest? Missing the chance to tell his best friend and roommate — the one he’s in love with — how he feels. Just another way he’s falling behind.Then he stumbles across a masked Brooklyn vigilante with a crime to solve, and it feels like something is pulling them together. Maybe something Bucky’s been waiting for.A NASBB collaboration with art by cruria.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 38
Kudos: 173
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working with this idea since October of 2017; how far we’ve come. Part of the 2020 (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang. 
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful artist cruria. Your contributions — both in terms of story and art — are so invaluable. Your art brings one of my favourite parts to life, and I’m thrilled that we could build this world together. 
> 
> Secondly, great appreciation and thanks to LoveMeSomeRafael for helping make this story better with tireless beta work and detail wrangling! You helped me navigate the tricky part between being done and being ready, and I am so happy with how this turned out. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to the NASBB mods for this event. From engagement to encouragement, this has been a fun experience and reminded me why it’s so fun to play in the Stucky fandom. 

Breakfast television might be a great way to start the day, but it’s a shitty way to end it. Bucky balances the cold bottom of his cereal bowl against his chest and goes for the remote. 

There’s way too much energy to take after a twelve hour shift, even if he keeps the volume on low so he doesn’t wake Steve up. Steve with his nine to five design job, making toys or whatever it is Stark Industries is into now. 

Finding a channel that promises morning news on the hour, Bucky nudges the volume up slightly. He’s curious if they’ll mention anything about one of the patients that came into the ER around two, whether they have an idea what happened to her. 

Betty and Dan are going through the usual welcome and jokes when Bucky hears noise at the door and Steve comes in, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s dressed in the same clothes he left for work in yesterday. 

“Oh,” Steve says when he sees Bucky on the couch. He nudges the bag behind him and closes the door with his foot. “You're home.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says around a mouthful of Cheerios. “Where were you, the gym?” 

“No,” Steve says. He heads to his room and pauses, cheeks a guilty red. “I was, uh, out. Just getting back.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says and digs out another spoonful. “Out.” 

“Yeah, I’m just gonna,” Steve says, pointing at the bathroom and going in, still with the bag. The shower starts up a second later.

The biggest problem about being on night shift, Bucky thinks, forcing himself to finish eating, is that he never sees his best friend anymore. It’s like he barely even knows Steve these days. 

He’s wondered who Steve’s been seeing for a while. At first he’d thought Sam, but the way they talk to each other is more brotherly than anything else. The buddy way Bucky and Steve can’t manage with warring schedules. Bucky doesn’t have a clue who Steve could be seeing so seriously that he’s staying out all night. 

Honestly, moving in together was a terrible idea. Great, sure, when Steve kept bouncing around temporary places, but less so now that Bucky’s losing more than a friend. He’s lost his chance— and it’s his own fault. 

Bucky gets up to bring his bowl into the kitchen. Kind of hard to say to a guy,  _ hey, why don’t you move in after my roommate leaves, and by the way I’m in love with you.  _

The shower stops, and Bucky hurries to finish the dishes. He doesn’t want to be still out here, looking more pathetic than usual. 

He’s not quite to his room when Steve comes out of the bathroom, yesterday’s pants slung loosely around his waist. 

“Hey,” Steve says, still drying his hair off with a towel. “You heading to bed?”

“Yep,” Bucky says, gesturing to his open door. “That time of morning again.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, kind of soft. There’s a look in his eye, like he wants to say something, but if it’s about his new boyfriend Bucky does not want to hear it. “You have a good shift?”

“It was all right, for the night,” Bucky says, shifting his weight to his heels. It’s the most he’s said to Steve all week, and it’s Thursday. 

“That’s, ah, that’s good,” Steve says. He shifts his towel to bundle it up with one hand. Bucky tries not to notice how it makes the curve of Steve’s bicep pop, but he’s only human.

“So, yeah, see you later,” Bucky says, even though he won’t. Bucky has to leave around five-thirty to catch the G to the hospital in commuter traffic, and Steve never makes it home before six. 

Steve lets him go without saying anything else. 

Bucky closes his bedroom door behind him, feels himself unwind in the dark of his blackout curtains over the window at the far end of his room. There’s a hint of light at one edge, reassurance that daylight still exists. 

Leaning back against the door, Bucky lets out a breath. It’s not like it’s unexpected. 

Steve has dated before, but Bucky's always known about his crushes, his boyfriends. Steve’s never hidden anything his entire life. He was out already in high school, with a take it or leave it attitude that’s both endearing and frustrating. 

It gave Bucky the courage to come out as bisexual in college, Steve the first one he told over winter break. Steve had gone weird about that for two hours before he’d shaken off whatever it was and acted like nothing had changed. 

And nothing had changed, Bucky thinks bitterly as he strips off the sweats before climbing into his bed. He hadn’t bothered to make it yesterday so it’s easy to slide into the same comfortable spot on the right side. 

Bucky reaches up with one hand to pull the elastic from his hair, ruffling it up so it relaxes. Maybe things hadn’t changed for Steve, but Bucky had to go and fall for someone who won’t ever think of him that way. 

It’s an awful line of thought for this time of the morning, especially since Bucky really should be sleeping. 

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and counts down as he exhales. It’s not counting sheep, but he’ll relax enough to be asleep before Steve leaves for work. 

* * *

Work is work, and as usual, things slow down just before midnight. Even the ER takes a moment to be quiet, although that’s less like calm and more like anticipation. 

It gives Bucky the chance to take his break outside. No one really uses the parking lot at this hour, making it the perfect spot to disappear. He stays underneath the overhang to avoid the light drizzle that’s making the night seem darker than it is. 

Bucky breathes in the coolness of the dark, ignoring the sharp smell of pineapple coming from the other side of the bike rack. 

“That you, Barnes?” Clint says from the shadow of the rack, purple running shoes visible through a bike’s rear wheel. 

“Yep,” Bucky says, letting his breath out slowly. Claiming a section of wall on Clint’s far side, he leans back against the brick and lets the rough surface catch at his hair. 

Clint resumes eating, the soft scrape of fork against plastic Tupperware the sound of progress. 

Bucky reaches up to unsnag his hair and redo the bun. It was falling out before he went on break, so he might as well fix it now. 

“So,” Clint finally says, when he snaps his snack container back together. “How’s your shift going?”

“Stable,” Bucky says. There’s a car moving in the lot, headlights cutting through the gloom a few rows over. He shuts his eyes for just a second, against the drizzle that feels like it’s drifting sideways. It’s quiet, which is all they can ever hope for. 

“But?” Clint prompts as the silence stretches between them. 

“I’m just tired,” Bucky says. It pretty much includes everything that’s going on with him, starting with having to take a break at midnight in order to actually get one. 

“Dude,” Clint says, tapping his tupperware against the side of Bucky’s knee. “It’s night shift. Of course you’re tired.” 

“No,” Bucky says, at the rain, the hospital, the darkness. He’s not sure it articulates everything he wants it to. “Steve started seeing someone.”

“Wait, your roommate Steve?” Clint asks. He doesn’t know everything packaged in that relationship backstory, but he knows enough. 

Bucky tips his head in a nod. “Yeah, it’s dumb, but I thought this was when we were going to look at each other some night and realize— well, whatever.” 

“Huh,” Clint says. That’s it, nothing about how Bucky had plenty of opportunities before to say something. 

He has said it before, about Steve and about staying so long on night shift instead of requesting a rotation like nearly everyone else who doesn’t fall in love with the night. It’s all true, but Bucky doesn’t want to hear it tonight. 

“You’re on ER rotation, aren’t you,” Clint says suddenly. He shifts, pulling his feet in closer and resting his arms on his knees. 

“Today’s my last day,” Bucky says. “But yeah.” 

“That’s where this is coming from,” Clint says. “You start seeing a lot of shit, some of the worst sides of people and suddenly you’re in a dark place too. It’ll pass, once you're back on your normal floors again.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. It’s been harder lately, seeing people when they’re lonely and sad, and he doesn’t have the same reserve of friendliness as Clint. 

A lot of his time is spent running to answer codes around the hospital, seeing the desperate moments of respiratory distress and hoping he can do something to help. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for anything else. 

“Are you talking to anyone about this?” 

“You,” Bucky says.

“No, I mean at home.” Clint waves a hand. “Your roommate, a professional, anyone. I can recommend someone.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, because opening up isn’t something he’s willing to do, not if it has a chance of going on his record and affecting his shifts. 

“Think about it,” Clint says, getting up in one quick motion without letting his hands touch the ground or the wall behind him. “Night shift is hard, and we both know someone has to do it. But if that can’t be you, it can’t be you.”

“Yeah, all right,” Bucky says, but doesn’t follow Clint inside. 

He takes another minute in the dark, letting his breath out slowly as he counts down from seven. He’s fine, even if it feels like he’s being left behind. 

The rest of his shift is better, going by quickly enough. The cases in the ER stay manageable, for a Thursday night, and the consult he does on a pediatric case doesn’t require intubation so he calls it a good one. 

By the time he’s showered, changed and on the street, the sun is just starting to come up and lighten the sky. One of the nicer things about coming off shift at 6 am is the lack of commuters, so it’s easy to make his way down the steps and onto the platform to wait for the train. 

Today he’s able to find a place to sit for the ten minutes he’s onboard and respond to some of the group chats he’s been ignoring. The one he’s in with Sam, Natasha and Steve is quiet, his the last message from a few days ago. He doesn’t send anything now, just closes out of the app and slides his phone back into his pocket. 

Once he leaves the safety of the station, he slips on his sunglasses to help block the light. Keeping it dark tells his body it’ll be time to sleep soon; part of the routine he’s perfected over the last few years. Walking the ten minutes back to their building with the sun on the side of his face, Bucky enjoys the warmth after the earlier rain.

Steve’s in the shower already when he lets himself into the apartment, intent on putting on the coffee and eating something. He’s not late today, but clearly Steve’s getting an early start. That is, if it is Steve and not whoever he’s seeing. Bucky is definitely not ready for somebody to be sleeping over. 

He makes oatmeal with fruit, a splurge since he’s coming off four days of work. It’s best to keep as close to his usual schedule as possible, but having the freedom to push things back even by half an hour feels pretty good. 

His phone buzzes beside him when he’s eating on the couch, some of his friends from college wondering if he wants to meet them for drinks tonight. Weekend plans on an actual weekend, what a concept. 

Spoon in his mouth and fumbling to type one-handed, Bucky is feeling his grossest when Steve finally steps out of the bathroom looking good in his tailored trousers. Of course. 

“Oh, hey, you’re back,” Steve says. He drapes his towel over his shoulder and does up the buttons on his blue shirt. 

“Yep,” Bucky says around the spoon. He hits send on the message he’d painstakingly typed out and drops his phone to his lap so he can take the spoon out of his mouth. “Happy Friday.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve says, disappearing into his room for a second. “I’ll be out of your way soon.”

“All good,” Bucky says. He scrapes the last of the oatmeal from the bowl, chasing the last of the chia seeds. “Just finished for a few days, actually.”

“Oh, you’re off.” Steve comes out of his room with his work bag, sounding surprised. 

“Once I sleep I’ll be human again,” Bucky says. He likes getting his sevenish hours before he gets up each afternoon, leaving him enough time to go for a run or cook before his day starts again. 

“Maybe we should go out tonight,” Steve says, setting his backpack near the door. “I’ll call Sam, maybe grab dinner once you’re up? Unless you’re too tired.”

“I won’t be,” Bucky says. He’s tired now, sure, but he’s literally about to sleep. 

“Good,” Steve says. “We can catch up, see how it’s going.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees.

Steve just looks at him, long enough that Bucky starts to wonder if he’d dozed mid-sentence. 

“Okay, well, the car’s going to be here,” Steve says. 

“Your coffee should be ready to go.” Bucky nods towards the kitchen. 

“Thanks,” Steve says as he moves into the next room, pausing by the full coffee maker. “I mean that.” 

“Of course you do,” Bucky says. He smiles at Steve’s back; their morning routine is kind of nauseating. 

He stays on the couch until Steve’s grabbed his coffee and gone. It always feels weird and empty after Steve leaves, but today he’s glad of it, of being left to his thoughts while he does his dishes and cleans up. 

As painful as their mornings have become, Bucky would really miss them. 

* * *

On the other side of seven hours, Bucky feels more equipped to handle a free day. It’s too hot to run this time of day, so he hits the gym for a longer workout than normal, until he can feel his legs shake when he makes his way back up to the third floor. 

Bucky showers, dresses in a nicer pair of jeans and a v-neck, and settles in on the couch to watch TV until Steve comes home. 

When he still isn’t there by six, Bucky gives into the urge to watch the news. It feels a bit defeatist, the same way he usually ends his day in the am, but it’s different in the evening. The tone is more somber, like everything is a little worse once the full light of day’s been on it. 

Steve’s officially late by the time the anchor’s wrapping up with a feel-good story about a food drive. Bucky’s about to get up when he hears Steve’s key in the door and sits down abruptly, trying to look casual. 

“Oh hey,” Steve says when he comes in, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Not working today?”

“No,” Bucky says slowly, muting the TV. “I’m off for three.” 

“That’s nice for you,” Steve says, carrying his bag to his room and disappearing inside, pulling the door closed a few inches. “Going to do anything fun?”

“I thought I was,” Bucky says. “But now I’m not sure.” 

“I’m going to be back late tonight,” Steve says. He comes back out of his room, doing up the zipper on his bag. “I have a thing I’m doing with, uh, with Sam.”

Sitting there in silence, Bucky’s not sure whether to remind Steve they had plans, or just let it slide. Either way, it’s a shitty feeling. 

“Awesome,” Steve says, responding to nothing. “Sorry to run, but I’ll probably see you tomorrow?”

Bucky shrugs, but Steve doesn’t look back. 

“This is great,” Bucky says to the empty apartment, to the stupid stylish boots he’d dug out of the back of his closet. He picks up his phone and opens the group chat with his college friends. 

_ Guess who suddenly finds himself available for drinks tonight  _

His message spawns a flurry of messages from the Howlies and more importantly, the address of an okayish sports bar in the East Village. He grabs his phone, wallet and keys and heads out. 

The bar is easy enough to find, not far from the 2nd Ave station. He’s not completely over feeling abandoned by the time he recognizes Dum Dum and his stupid mustache ordering pitchers at the bar, but he’s pretty confident in his ability to hide it. 

“Bucky,” he says, gesturing him over with one big hand. “Help me carry.”

“Sure.” Bucky wades in to help. “Long time no see.”

“Definitely your fault,” Dum Dum says, leading the way to the table they’ve claimed with a view of enough screens to catch whatever hockey game is on. It’s the whole study group from level one Human Biochem, minus Jacques who is at a conference in Jersey this weekend. 

“So,” Gabe says when Bucky sits down next to him. “You finally get a weekend off?”

“What’s a weekend,” Monty and Jim say together, then they all raise their glasses to take a drink. It’s been their mantra since clinical placement in second year, the first step to giving up things like weekends and regular schedules. 

They catch up over the first round of drinks. Jim’s thinking about switching to surgical nursing, Gabe was promoted to his shift lead at the VA Hospital and Dum Dum’s wife Mary is expecting their first baby. 

Bucky lifts his class to everything like everyone else, but it gets stuck in his throat when he swallows. He really is getting left behind. 

“And you?” Monty asks, pouring more beer into his glass before topping up Bucky’s. “It’s been a while since you’ve been able to come out.”

“Still on nights,” Bucky says, taking a sip. “So that’s the same.” 

“And your roommate, Steve? Did you ever…?” Gabe asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“No,” Bucky says, a little short. Maybe he’s hiding it more poorly than he thought. “We never.” 

“Shit, man,” Jim says, shifting back in his chair. “Haven’t you had a thing for him for like—”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, cutting him off. They all know it’s been years, no sense in voicing that pathetic thought. “And obviously that’s not happening, so we can talk about something else anytime now.”

“Aw, buddy,” Dum Dum says, “we’re just teasing.” 

Bucky waves it off, done talking about this. It’s not their fault he’s been living with Steve for so long and never taken his shot, but he does regret telling them about his feelings for his best friend. “I know. Just figure he’s dating someone new, someone serious. Don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Well, not that I’m advocating for drinking to deal with your pain,” Gabe says, but points to his glass anyway. “Might as well, don’t know when you’ll be able to join us again.”

“True,” Bucky says and drains his glass. 

They shift to talking about Monty's problem with administration not issuing enough equipment for shifts, Bucky adding in his experience from covering nights in Brooklyn and Dum Dum on the palliative side. It’s nice to talk work without dwelling on the things wrong with his own situation. 

But on that, everyone does have an opinion. 

From talking to the nurse supervisor about getting onto a two- or three-shift rotation or his union rep for a new position, there seem to be options. Of course, throwing himself onto the wheel of fate means he’s subject to whatever’s available. He’d have to be willing to go where they send him. Moving to a different area of the city would have been unthinkable before, but if Steve is moving on, then maybe he should too. 

It’s not a comfortable thought, but Bucky raises a glass to that all the same. 

A couple of drinks turns into grabbing a meal at a Ukranian place Monty demands they all try. Bucky obviously has to order pierogi, ending up splitting his order with Jim and taking half of the patty melt. He’s glad he’d taken the time for a good workout earlier, and just enjoys the food and his friends. 

Dum Dum makes some noise about needing to be home before too late and begs off when the rest of them want to keep going. They find a place with fewer TVs but also fewer drunk people, losing Monty halfway through since he’s on days tomorrow. 

Jim, Gabe and Bucky stay to finish off the drinks they’ve ordered, but with people around them quickly getting drunker, being out isn’t as much fun anymore. 

It’s been good to hang out with his friends again, people who work in the same field and have actual advice for getting out of the place he’s in. They’ve all been there, wanting to help people but not in the best place to do it. 

He and Gabe are the last to leave the bar, pleasantly tipsy. Gabe offers to share an Uber, but he’s going to his girlfriend’s place in Chelsea. Even if Bucky wasn’t going to be up for the next couple of hours, it’s the wrong direction. 

After saying goodbye, he’s at a loss for what to do. Normally, this is the time of night where things get busy, either with incoming cases or follow ups. The byproduct is he’s now wide awake, not ready to call it a night and binge TV. 

He ends up yielding to the call of other people on the street, getting drawn away from the subway station to streets filled with bars and open patios. It’s nice to be around people, even if he’s on his own. Bucky’s not kidding himself, though, it’d be better to be hanging out with his best friend. 

Suddenly tired of being out, he takes the subway home, scrolling through social media on his phone and liking Dum Dum’s post about drinks with the college boys. 

Without thinking about it, he switches over to Steve’s account to relive better times— but there isn’t anything to look at. Just seven pictures, a handful of Steve’s product sketches and a picture of the plant in their kitchen window. It’s like his and Bucky's friendship never existed in the eyes of social media. 

The sound of someone groaning makes him click guiltily out of the app, looking up to see someone trying to vape surreptitiously under their jacket, next to someone with their head between their knees. When it progresses to heaving, he’s out. 

Exiting in Downtown, the next train shows it won’t arrive for another fifteen minutes. He’s not willing to wait, so Bucky goes up to the street and chooses a quiet area to walk down instead. He ends up between a school and a church on a quiet side street, avoiding the risk of more vomit coming his way. 

The church is being refaced, mesh-covered scaffolding going all the way up the side so only the steeple is visible to identify it. Bucky’s looking at the time on his phone when something drops onto the wooden planks of the scaffold— he jumps, nearly dropping his phone. 

He squints upwards to see what it could have been, trying to see through the mesh from across the street. It sounds like someone is messing around up there, trying to climb the scaffolds without being noticed. None of his business, unless it’s a kid. If they slip, it could end badly. 

“Hey,” Bucky calls out to the shape moving around the edge of the structure. “What are you doing up there?”

Whoever it is drops out of sight, reinforcing his thought that it’s kids. If they’d frozen in place, he never would have figured out where to look. 

It’s quiet for a minute, no signs of movement. Bucky should move on. He takes a few hopeful steps along the sidewalk but then he hears them moving again, up the scaffolds instead of down. 

He sighs, digging his phone out of his pocket to turn on the flashlight. “All right, why don’t you come down before you hurt yourself.” 

The person swings up to the next level, then flattens against the floor of the structure. There’s a flash of movement, someone thinking better of throwing something at him down below. 

“I can see you,” Bucky says belligerently. None of this was what he wanted to do tonight. 

“I’m the HVAC guy, I’m inspecting a faulty AC unit,” a deep voice calls out. “Thanks for your concern.”

“In the middle of the fucking night,” Bucky says. “I’d be more likely to believe you if you said you were Batman.”

There’s a thoughtful moment of silence. 

“I won’t believe that now,” Bucky says, reluctantly finding this whole thing funny. “So don’t even try it.”

“Listen, okay, I’m not doing anything,” the guy says, but he’s still suspiciously two stories up. “I’m just checking out this AC unit.”

Bucky sighs loudly. He’s not nearly drunk enough anymore to buy it. 

“I promise. This is fine.” The guy must feel Bucky wavering. “I’m not going to hurt myself, it’s completely under control.”

“And yet I still don’t believe you,” Bucky says, shoves his phone then his hands into his pockets. He pulls back on his curiosity, his concern about what might happen if the climber falls off the church and shrugs it all off. He goes to walk on, then stops again. “If this is illegal, I don’t want to know. Just be careful.”

Conscience clear, he waits for a response. There's nothing, not even a shift in the scaffolding under a person’s weight. He gives it another second, but whoever it is has either made it to the roof of the church or given up on getting there, so Bucky moves on. 

He nods once, and then keeps walking until he sees the lights of the Barclays Center and before that, their building. 

Steve isn’t there when he gets in, of course, but the dark apartment is at least familiar right now. He drinks two glasses of water before climbing into bed and sleeping until three.

* * *

When he wakes up, he’s alone and has been for a while. The only sign Steve’s been there at all is an extra glass in the dishwasher. He must be really serious about whoever it is, Bucky thinks, and goes to the gym so he doesn’t have to think about it anymore. 

By Saturday night, he’s tackled the things he can’t get to easily with his work schedule: getting groceries at the more expensive but better store, straightening up the apartment and reorganizing the kitchen. 

He hears from Gabe on Sunday and ends up meeting him, his girlfriend Uyen and Monty for a late lunch. Bucky’s still trying to keep to his regular routine so going back on Monday night won’t be too painful. 

It’s nice to see them again, even if Uyen clearly is asking questions about Bucky to see if he’s normal enough to recommend to a friend of hers. He’s not exactly not interested, but neither is he ready to jump into anything right now.

So he gives her polite but vague answers, telling both Gabe and Monty he’s seriously thinking about switching into a different track at work. They make casual plans to get together again the next time their days off align. It’s not likely to happen, but Bucky feels better about making an effort anyway. 

By that night, he’s feeling restless. Yielding to a late night craving, he heads to Williamsburg to find his favourite halal cart for chicken and rice with white sauce. 

This weekend he’s been eating out more than usual, but placing his order, he doesn’t regret a minute of it. He goes back to work tomorrow for another three on, and the opportunities to treat himself decrease accordingly. 

Wrap in hand, he walks long enough to find a quiet spot to stop and eat it, leaning on the side of a mostly-empty bike rack at the side of a brick building. It’s not that comfortable, but he has a good enough view of the street to relax for a few. 

He hates walking and eating. It reminds him of clinical, of twelve hours of intensity and just trying to do his best. 

He wraps back the foil and takes a few good bites. It’s just as satisfying as he was hoping for, the right combination of savoury and spicy. Adjusting the foil, he’s leaning in for another bite when he sees someone kneeling at the base of the fence around the building across the street. 

He pauses, watching them work and the bottom of the rail. In dark clothing with a toolbelt, they aren’t out of place, but something doesn’t feel right. 

They get the fence open, looking around before slipping through the gap. Once in, they disappear into the dark until Bucky sees them on the dumpster reaching for the base of a windowsill to climb up. 

It is, in a word, suspect. 

Bucky takes the bite he was going for, pushes the foil back over his uneaten portion and heads across the street until he’s staring at the climber through the fence. This close, he can see their face is covered too, kind of a clue this isn’t some guy scaling buildings for the sake of it. 

“So let me guess,” Bucky says. “You locked your keys inside.”

The figure drops back down onto the dumpster, looking over their shoulder and cursing. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The voice is familiar, deep and a touch annoyed. It’s the guy from Friday, the one messing around the church. 

Bucky takes a step or two away from the fence, a little surprised to find the same guy behind this climbing attempt. He’s probably not here to check the AC, not dressed like that. 

“Oh, we meet again,” Bucky says, unwrapping his food to resume eating. “Should I jump straight to saying you don’t look like a HVAC tech?”

“No,” the guy says. He sighs deeply. Bucky can see it start and then end in his shoulders. The material of his outfit looks utilitarian, with a tool belt that’s more tactical than repairman. 

“If you’re trying to be sneaky, you’re kind of shitty at it,” Bucky says when the silence stretches out a little too long. “I could see you from across the street.”

“I’m not trying anything,” he says, looking up like he’s debating a second go at the windowsill. 

“You’d still be working on getting up to the roof if I didn’t come over here,” Bucky says. He looks at the angle himself. Possible, maybe, but it’d be easier if the guy lifted half the dumpster lid to use as a foothold. 

“So why did you?”

Bucky shrugs, not about to say he has nothing better to do, even if it’s the truth. “Just in case they need a witness.” 

“A witness to what, me standing here?” The guy shifts to face the wall again, hands on his hips. 

“I’m an upstanding citizen,” Bucky says. He finishes off his wrap, crumples up the foil into a ball and makes a fist around it.

“Who’s walking around at two in the morning,” the guy says.

“Doing my civic duty, maybe witnessing some crimes.”

The guy sighs, long and drawn out.

Bucky smirks at him; he can’t help it. It's been a while since he’s had this much fun talking to someone outside of work. 

“Indulge me,” Bucky says. “I mean, the odds of me bumping into you twice over a weekend are pretty low. Might as well tell me what's got you climbing buildings all over the neighborhood.”

The guy’s shoulders tense, like he’s debating whether to make a vertical leap upwards in hopes of exiting the conversation. He glances back at Bucky, just a strip of skin visible around his eyes. Not enough to reveal anything about what he’s feeling. 

“The people I work for...we’re looking for something,” he says after a long pause. 

Bucky snorts. “Have you heard of a thing called Google?” 

“Not that kind of thing,” the guy says. He lowers his hands, then turns to look at Bucky for a second. “You have to promise not to say anything about this.”

“Of course,” Bucky says instantly, but he’s not sure why. 

“It’s me,” the guy says, finally turning around to face him. He’s half in darkness, just a narrow strip of light across the leg of his pants. Before he can say more, his eyes dart up to something over Bucky’s shoulder. Whatever it is makes him go  _ oh shit _ and try for the window again, reaching the roof this time and then taking off.

He’s gone before Bucky can react. Too late, he turns to see the trigger— a white delivery van making its way slowly down the street. He’s not sure what that’s all about, but there’s no one around to ask. 

Okay. Bucky knows when to give up. He squeezes the foil ball in his fist and goes home. 

* * *

Steve gets in around three am. 

Bucky’s up, of course, listening through the shared wall. Somehow he can tell that Steve is waiting for Bucky to come out of his room so they can talk. He’s not interested in a recap of Steve’s weekend retreat, no matter how much Steve wants to share. 

Instead, he turns up the volume on his headphones and resumes playback on his laptop. He must fall asleep somewhere around the ninth episode of  _ The Office, _ because it’s still on the screen when he gets up at two in the afternoon. 

It’s his first day back after a few away, so getting back into his routine is critical. He works out, makes lunches for the week and leaves a covered dish for Steve in the fridge. He doesn’t even feel too conflicted about it. 

They’re going to have to talk again sometime. It could even be tonight, if Steve manages to get home before Bucky leaves for work. 

Thankfully, it’s not. 

Bucky heads out at his usual time without any awkward encounters and is ready to take on his patients when he goes on shift. He’s back on primary assignment in the ICU with just two patients in his rooms when he starts. Vitals are stable when he checks, which is about all he can ask for. 

Another patient gets moved to his floor before midnight, a man admitted earlier after suffering a massive heart attack. They’d intubated and ventilated in the ER before a room was found up here, so Bucky checks on the IV and other tubes, the monitors hooked up to the patient. 

Somewhere around three, Clint calls him for a consult on one of his patients, a woman with difficulty breathing. It’s audible when Bucky listens to her struggle, but her lungs sound clear. They check her oxygen level and pulse, which are low, so they set her up with a tank and a cannula to boost saturation. 

That completed, Bucky’s going to go back down two floors to his patients when Clint tells him to hold on a minute. 

“Want to see something weird?” Clint asks, sliding his stethoscope back into his scrubs’ pocket. 

“Always,” Bucky says, following Clint to the station desk. 

Clint pulls open a drawer and takes out a smooth grey rectangle, turning it over in his hands before passing it to Bucky. It looks like a credit card holder for somebody in Silicon Valley; no discernible way to open it up. 

“Weird,” Bucky says, going to hand it back over.

Clint waves it away, reaching up to turn off his hearing aids. “Press the two corners.” 

“What?” Bucky asks, frowning at Clint before looking back down at the thing he’s holding. He presses, and something inside it  _ clicks,  _ immediately making the computer on the station desk flicker and hum. 

Taking it back, Clint clicks it again and the noise stops. He turns his hearing aids back on. “It was not fun when I figured out what it did earlier,” Clint says.

“So what is it doing?” Bucky asks. Taking it back when Clint offers, he looks at it more carefully for any visible manufacturing marks. It’s not unlike some of the drawings Steve used to bring home, making tech toys for adults. 

“Sending out a disruptive signal,” Clint says, tilting his head towards the computer. “Whatever it does affects electronics, jams them somehow. Not sure what for.” 

“Huh,” Bucky says, tempted to try it again but handing it back before he gives in. “Where’d it come from?”

“Not sure,” Clint says, dropping it back in the drawer. “Found it in one of the ward rooms after my patients checked out. We’re holding it in case someone calls in to claim it.” 

“Well, if they do, ask what it’s for,” Bucky says. He heads towards the stairs to go back to his floor. 

“Probably just someone’s science project,” Clint calls after him, going quiet when the door to the stairway clicks shut.

Bucky takes the stairs quickly, running through what he needs to do when he gets back downstairs. The familiarity of work is comforting. Patient assessment, paperwork, eat, assessment and follow ups, all interspersed with handwashing. 

The routine at home is easy in the same way. He doesn’t see Steve that morning, so he falls into his normal eat-sleep-run pattern without any interruptions. 

It hits him on his run through Prospect Park, that he’s been in the same place for years. Living with Steve, in love with him. Waiting for the right time to say something, not wanting to lose what he has— until he finds out it’s already gone. 

His entire life, he’s been happy with what he’s been given. But now he wonders what he’d have if he’d asked for a bit more once in a while. Taken a chance. 

Slowing and stepping off the path, Bucky puts his hands on his knees and concentrates on breathing. In, then out, counting to six each way. 

He’s not having a crisis at three in the afternoon. He can’t. He works later, starts at eight like always, and he needs to be able to take care of other people first. The same way he can be happy for Steve being with someone, even if it means being sad for himself. 

It’s just— Fuck. Bucky straightens, resting his hands on the back of his head. Steve dating means Bucky’s missed his chance again, maybe for good. 

He starts running again and thinks only about breathing in, then out. 


	2. Chapter 2

Clint meets him on break that night in the quiet of the cafeteria for a change of scenery. The coffee place nestled near a small stand of chairs for visitors serves decent enough coffee. 

Technically, it’s closed from 1 to 3 for cleaning, but since Clint knows the supervisor on the midnight shift they always get service. Well, Clint does. Bucky gets lucky by association. 

“So how are you doing,” Clint says, once they’ve recapped their current patient cases and covered what Clint’s dog is up to. 

“Fine,” Bucky says, drumming his fingers against the side of his takeaway cup. 

Clint waits. 

“I think you’re right, I need a change,” Bucky says, almost to himself. He hopes that everything he was feeling earlier isn’t written all over his face.

“Okay,” Clint says simply. “So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “I just don’t love this.”

Nodding at that, Clint takes a drink of coffee. “You gotta figure out what you want first. You move too fast, you’ll end up on a shitty three-two that makes it impossible to hold a routine.”

“I know,” Bucky says, annoyed a bit. Clint’s been doing this longer than he has, but it still rankles. 

“You think I'm being a jerk,” Clint says, leaning back. He eyes Bucky, the way he has his arms crossed over his chest and the scowl on his face. 

Bucky tries to unclench, but Clint's already looking away, shrugging it off. 

“Maybe I am,” Clint says. “You’re a good nurse, but I don’t want you to make it worse on yourself just because you're struggling right now. Because we both know it can be worse.” 

“Yeah, all right,” Bucky says. Clint’s right. When he was first out of school, he was constantly shifting from day to night. Then at least he wasn’t just going through the motions of living on his days off. Somewhere along the line, he forgot to care about things. 

Thinking about what he wants takes him through the rest of his shift, then into calls he has, first with Gabe and then Monty on his way home. Both have supervisory insight, even if they don’t give him any answers, and affirm that if he’s going to go off night shift it better be for something specific. Otherwise, he’ll have to take what they give him. 

He’s not doing that anymore. 

This was the first job he was offered out of school, full-time and in his desired field. He’s wondering now if he’d just said yes because it was easy. He didn’t have to move, he could just start, but maybe he could have done more to pursue what he wanted. 

It’s a sobering thought, making him feel like he’s on the back foot when he enters his apartment after his shift to see Steve standing by the window, in the middle of a toxic-looking yellow smoothie. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, hanging up his keys and taking off his shoes. “Good weekend?” 

Steve nods around the cup he’s drinking, disappearing around the corner into the kitchen. The tap comes on, then stops. “You realize it’s Tuesday,” Steve calls out. 

“Well, I haven’t seen you for a while,” Bucky says, working to keep the bite from his voice. He hesitates by the door, unsure of whether he should just follow his normal routine with Steve up and about. It’s throwing him off. 

“Yeah, I've been working on a big project,” Steve says. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Is it something I'd need an NDA for?” Bucky asks, deciding to just shove down the awkwardness and pretend like nothing’s changed. 

He edges closer to the kitchen and grabs some breakfast, cereal with protein so he doesn't have a glucose crash a couple hours into sleep that forces him up to eat again. Steve’s left half a banana on the counter, probably from his toxic smoothie, so he scoops that up too. 

“Probably, but who cares,” Steve says. He passes behind Bucky, close enough to brush against him in the narrow galley. 

Bucky sets his hands down on the counter until Steve’s safe in the living room, sitting down awkwardly on the arm of the chair closest to the kitchen. 

“This project,” Steve says, then stops. 

“What about it,” Bucky says, digging for a spoon in the cutlery drawer and dropping it into his bowl. He takes a bite of the banana, speaking around it. “Is it something dangerous? Tech that’s going to solve a problem and then go Skynet?”

“No, I—” Steve’s phone beeps, so he cuts himself off to look at it. “Shit, hold on, this is work.” 

Bucky shrugs, leaving the banana peel on the counter and popping the last piece into his mouth. 

Steve’s moved to take the call in his bedroom, door half-shut. 

Settling onto the couch with his breakfast, Bucky reaches for the remote but leaves the TV off. Their place is a decent size, but it’s still Brooklyn. He can hear Steve arguing with whoever’s on the other end of the phone, something about a project. 

Steve comes back out after a minute, sliding his phone into his pocket with a pensive look on his face. 

“So?” Bucky asks him around a mouthful of cereal. 

“So...what?” Steve glances up at him uneasily, like his phone call reminded him he’s not supposed to be talking about this. 

“The project,” Bucky reminds him. “You were saying?” 

“Yeah. I can’t really say.” Steve flushes, caught out. His face is always an open book, so Bucky knows that Steve’s hiding something he really wishes he could tell Bucky. “Just that I'll be gone more, and I don't want you to worry.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, stung that Steve doesn’t feel like he can talk about the person he’s seeing. “Whatever. Just don’t start coming in and out during the day, I kind of need my sleep then.” 

“Of course, I would never,” Steve says immediately. He opens his mouth to say something else but closes it after a second, looking thoughtful. 

“Good,” Bucky says, then brings his attention back to his cereal to leave the situation as quickly as possible. It’s not mature, but if Steve won’t pretend they're friends he won’t do it for them both. 

“Is, um. Is everything okay,” Steve says. “With you.” 

“Everything’s fine,” Bucky says, even though it’s as far from fine as he can remember being in years. What’s true is he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Just thinking about work. Doing another stint in the ER soon, you know how that is.” 

“Right, right,” Steve says. He bends down to pick up that fucking gym bag, and hesitates before slinging it onto his shoulder. “Well, maybe we can try and do something on your next day off?” 

“Sure,” Bucky says. He’s off tomorrow but doesn’t say anything because of what happened last time. 

“Okay, great,” Steve says, nodding. “We should—” 

“I’m going to bed,” Bucky says suddenly, taking his empty bowl to the kitchen to rinse it out and set it in the dishwasher. It’s stupid, but he wants to be the one to leave this time. 

Steve’s still standing by the door when he comes back through. Bucky nods at him, says  _ see you later  _ and stays in his bedroom until he hears Steve leave. 

* * *

His shift that night is uneventful. Clint’s off, which is a good thing, because Bucky doesn’t really want to revisit anything until he’s had a chance to work through it on his own. 

After he showers, he checks the schedule before leaving. He’s off for the next few days, but when he comes back, he’s going to be on a 4-3-3 ER rotation. It’s important work, but he hates being in close proximity to doctors who don’t bother to use his name and just call him respiratory! In varying volumes depending on the case or code.

He leaves the hospital with no plans for the morning but sleep, and gets it. Steve’s gone again, leaving another half a banana on the counter for Bucky’s breakfast. 

This one Bucky leaves, even though it’s sure to bring ants or fruit flies. Steve can deal with his own mess this time. 

Bucky sleeps deeply but angrily, waking up with a sore jaw from clenching it during a shitty dream where he was looking for something he couldn’t name and didn’t find by the time he woke up. 

He goes for a run and comes back to a message in the group text from Gabe, wondering if anyone is around for a drink that night since he’s on second shift right now. 

Bucky’s in, and after a bit of back and forth, he and Gabe agree to meet at a bar in the East Village, near the VA Hospital.

The game’s on when Bucky gets there, the Islanders playing on a West Coast roadie. He sits down with a beer to enjoy watching the first period until Gabe arrives. 

He’s into it, only noticing that Gabe got there when he sits down beside him at the bar, drink in hand.

“I was going to apologize for keeping you waiting,” Gabe says, “but I see you found something to do.”

“Sorry, I was going to keep an eye out for you,” Bucky says, shifting on the chair to make more room beside him. “But, you know you chose a sports bar, right?” 

“Just because it has TVs doesn’t make it a sports bar.” Gabe laughs, despite the fact there’s both Yankees and Mets gear hanging behind the bar.

“Forgot I was dealing with a nurse supervisor now,” Bucky says. “Playing both sides of the issue.”

“Well, it is my name on the reviews now,” Gabe says. 

“How’s that going anyway? Still liking it?”

“It’s way more paperwork,” Gabe says. He and Bucky share a knowing look at that. “But I like being responsible for patient care, raising the benchmarks to get them the help they need every time. More control over that.”

“And managing staff?” Bucky asks. Maintaining strong teams is always a concern when someone moves up or around, and advancing from within can shift that balance irreparably. 

“Well, moving onto second shift helped. I'm not dealing with day shift not being able to see me in a new light.” 

Bucky nods at that, taking a sip of beer. 

“Just one less layer of bullshit to worry about,” Gabe says, then looks at Bucky. “Speaking of, you figured out what you’re going to do?”

“Not really,” Bucky says, biting off a curse when San Jose scores on screen. “Still figuring out what the right next step is.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Gabe says, and then they both wince when a Shark forward gets laid out on the ice. 

“Shoulder,” Bucky says and tips back the last of his beer. “I’d put a drink on it.”

“No, that’s collarbone all the way,” Gabe says, intent on the replay. “Look at the way they hit him, the way he curls around it.” 

“Upper body at best,” Bucky disagrees. He’s confident only from knowing the game. Shoulder’s one of the more common injuries, enough that he recognizes the signs when they go down. 

Gabe groans when they make the call and Bucky's right, throwing down for another round. 

The game ends up going into overtime and then shootouts, the Sharks narrowly eking out a win with a wrister that sneaks into the corner. It’s a good shot if it’s not the way that Bucky wanted to see the game go. 

Regardless of the game’s outcome, it’s a good night. Bucky feels lighter when he says goodbye to Gabe and heads home.

He isn’t looking for trouble, so of course it finds him, just a few feet off the train in Williamsburg. 

It was an impulse to stop on the way back home, ostensibly for a late night food cart but also making himself available for interruptions. There’s a large group up ahead, boisterous and loud despite the hour. Bucky doesn’t want to engage so he ducks down a side street lined with construction fences and equipment. He cuts across the street, passing underneath a sidewalk shed when someone lands on the planks above him, startling him into almost dropping his phone. 

Bucky steps out of the walkway to see what it is, stepping into the street to see the masked man leaning over the edge of the parapet on the shed’s upper level, forearms resting on the edge of the plywood barrier. 

“I’m starting to think you’re following me,” the guy says, a note of laughter behind the mask. He steps back into the shadow of the scaffold once Bucky’s noticed him, out of sight of anyone else. 

“Can I just point out that you’re the one running around on the roof,” Bucky says. 

“It’s not really running,” the guy says. He seems more relaxed tonight, maybe because he’s already up ten feet and well out of Bucky’s way. 

Then again, he’d leaned over the side of the scaffold to have a chat, so Bucky has no idea what he actually wants.

“You still want to know what I’m doing?” The guy says from the shadows. 

“What,” Bucky says flatly. 

The guy laughs a little, leaning forward and into the light. The mask is well-fitted to his face, only that gap around bright blue eyes. “Well, three times lucky, right? It’s a sign.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, surprising himself. He eyes the structure, but there’s no clear way up from the sidewalk.

“Meet me over there,” the guy says, pointing at a building a few doors down, maybe a story and a half tall. “If you want.” 

It’s definitely a challenge. Bucky raises his eyebrows, putting the thought of food on the back burner and wandering over to see what he’s dealing with. 

The guy in the mask beats him there, moving easily down the scaffold and over to the roof.

“I got up on the side, where the pallets are,” the guy says, gesturing to the left side of the building, where it opens onto an alleyway that’s partially fenced.

“Got it,” Bucky says and eyes the distance between the wooden platforms, the chain link fence and the roof. He uses the open side of the pallets like a ladder, then pivots off the top of the fence to launch himself up to the edge of the roof and over like he’s done it before. 

By the look on the guy's face, it’s unexpected. 

Bucky flexes his hands, silently grateful for the gym membership. “So it’s a sign?”

“Right,” the guy says, shaking it off. 

“I’m Bucky,” Bucky says. 

The man in the mask hesitates. “I’m, uh, they call me codename Eagle.” 

“Wow, okay, that’s a mouthful,” Bucky says. “What were your parents thinking?”

“Funny,” the guy— Eagle says.

“Sure, you’re the only one on the roll call but at what cost,” Bucky continues, moving to the side of the building closest to the cross streets.

“I— it’s not my real name.”

Bucky eyes him with a no shit expression. 

Eagle shrugs, looking sheepish even just from what Bucky sees around his eyes. 

“So what’s the deal here?” Bucky asks, pulling his attention away from the mask. From up here he can see down the streets in a few directions. It’s not a great view. He’d have to be after something specific to track it down.

The Eagle comes up beside him, setting his hands on the top of the parapet and looking down. “Something was stolen from the place I work for. I’m trying to find out what happened to it.”

Frowning, Bucky eyes him. “So becoming a vigilante made sense? Insteading of filing a report?”

“The stuff isn’t exactly…” Eagle trails off. 

“If you say it’s not legal, I'm throwing myself off the roof— don’t worry, it’s not that high up, I'd be fine,” Bucky says. 

“It’s legal, but it’s...technically, it doesn’t exist, we never filed any patents or anything,” Eagle says. “So we can’t report it or even prove it’s actually ours. I’m trying to find out what they’re doing with it, selling or using it.”

“You’re Batman,” Bucky says slowly. “You’re actually Batman.” 

“Well, I’m not secretly a billionaire,” the Eagle says. 

“The mysteriously bankrolled tech, though,” Bucky says, rewarded with the way he can see the guy’s eyes crinkle with a smile. He’s used to communicating through a mask from work, so it’s not hard to pick up on the body language. 

“So what could you do with tech that can interfere with a computer?”

The Eagle turns to look at Bucky. “Interfere how?” 

“The screen, it flickered and the clock stopped working somehow.” Bucky shrugs, unsure of what else Clint's device might have done in the short time they used it. “Is that something—” 

“What did you do with it?” The Eagle says abruptly, interrupting him. 

Bucky frowns, taking a step back. 

“Where is it now,” Eagle says, intent on Bucky’s face. 

“So it is yours,” Bucky says. The intensity makes him uncomfortable, but he’s already taken a step back and refuses to give up more ground. He crosses his arms over his chest instead.

“It sounds like it could be one of the pieces that were taken,” Eagle says noncommittally, stepping back to look over the street. 

“How’d it end up in the hospital lost and found?” Bucky asks. Clint’s in cardiac, and while he sees a wide range of cases most of his patients don’t fit the archetype of criminal mastermind. 

“Supposed to be in a locked warehouse,” Eagle says. He sighs, setting his hands on his hips. “I guess we can send someone down to Woodhull—” 

Bucky cuts him off. “How’d you know that’s my hospital?” 

“Brooklyn,” Eagle says vaguely, waving his hand at the street below. “That’s closest, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Makes sense if something happened to someone using it, they’d go there.”

“Why would they use it, what’s it for?” Bucky asks. He’s frustrated at the way Eagle’s talking circles, that he keeps getting more questions than answers. “What happens to someone using it?” 

“Those are great questions,” Eagle says and doesn’t answer any of them. 

Bucky shakes a fist at Eagle’s back, at the majestic way he’s surveying the street and completely oblivious to the way he’s winding Bucky up. 

Eagle looks over his shoulder, right at Bucky. “What a mystery.” 

Maybe not completely oblivious. 

“And they hired you to do this,” Bucky says, gesturing at Eagle’s outfit. “Dress up in a costume, investigate the streets at night.”

“Well, I'm a good employee,” Eagle says. His eyes are crinkling again. “Going the extra mile.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, turning his attention back down below. He watches someone walk briskly down the street, plastic bag dangling from one wrist. One thing’s still bothering him, though. 

“Why am I here?” Bucky asks, looking at the Eagle. There’s no good reason why he’s up on the roof with wannabe Batman, why stumbling across a guy in the dark turned him into Robin. Or that he’s strangely into it all.

“It’s not a coincidence,” the Eagle says. “Me seeing you.” 

“Pretty sure I saw you first,” Bucky says to be an ass, because Eagle isn’t answering the question. 

“Whatever.” Eagle waves it off. “Something told me that you’d be helpful. An extra set of eyes on this corner.”

It’s not the truth, or at least not all of it. Bucky waits to see if there’s more coming, but Eagle’s focused back on the street. 

“So what is it about this corner?” Bucky asks, looking in both directions. It’s not overly busy, and he’s not sure what they're looking for. 

The Eagle moves closer to the edge of the roof, enough that he’s sure to be seen over the top of the parapet. He doesn’t seem bothered. “You can see traffic in four directions, five if you include that parking garage. Hoping to get lucky and spot the van used for most of the thefts.”

“They used the same van?” 

“Each time,” Eagle says. “Branded with the Stark logo, so by the time we realized stuff was going missing, it was too late. Managed to match some markers from the security footage so we know how the tech was taken out, but now we’re looking for the vehicle. You’d think it’d be easy to find a single white van in the city, right?” 

“Well—” Bucky starts doubtfully, because where is this guy from— 

“It’s a joke, I'm from Brooklyn, I know that’s impossible,” the Eagle says quickly, then they both fall quiet when a white van turns slowly onto the street. 

“Is that the van?” Bucky asks under his breath, but the Eagle isn’t paying attention. 

“Shit,” the Eagle says, taking off across the rooftop before jumping down out of sight. 

Bucky stands there alone, waits for a minute but the van’s gone down the street. Then another white van— this one branded as a bread delivery truck— coaxes its way onto the street from a garage bay across the street before going left. 

It’s gone, but so is the Eagle. 

He pulls out his phone, googles the address across the street. It has nothing to do with bread, either making or selling, registered online as a pharmaceutical company. The website lists an address in Midtown and makes no mention of this building in Brooklyn. 

Stepping away from the edge, he looks up at the sky. It’s closer to dawn than he’d expected. He makes his way back down, careful not to get noticed, and heads back to his apartment.

* * *

Despite seeing the guy— the Eagle— three times, Bucky doesn’t hold his breath that he’ll see him again. Brooklyn, hell, Williamsburg is too big to expect to bump into someone like that, especially at night. 

But then Bucky casually heads into the neighbourhood the next night anyway— not because he’s trying to catch sight of the Eagle but because he’s in pursuit of a particular taco truck— and they see each other again. 

Bucky has a burrito in hand when the Eagle drops down on the sidewalk beside him. It’s the whole superhero pose too, one hand and knee on the ground in landing before he rises back to his feet. 

“Cute,” Bucky says to him, tamping down on the flicker of excitement when the Eagle seeks him out again. 

“Been waiting to do that,” Eagle says. Even behind the mask Bucky can tell he’s grinning. “Oh, I see you brought stakeout snacks.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, gesturing with the burrito. “Except I can’t exactly climb up there with this.” 

“I can help with that,” Eagle says, up towards the roof. 

“If you say you can fly I'm going to lose it,” Bucky says. The outfit doesn’t have a cape, though, and that seems to be the usual indication of the ability in the comics. 

“I meant you could like, toss it up to me when I'm up there.” The Eagle mimics the toss, then himself catching it one-handed. 

“How about I just eat it down here instead,” Bucky says. He’d gotten a few bites in before Eagle had shown up, enough that wrapping it up may have a catastrophic impact on what’s left. 

To his surprise, Eagle stays down at street level with him instead. He does step backwards into the shadow, but it looks casual instead of suspicious. “So you’re really into street food?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and takes another bite. “Better than sitting down for a meal somewhere. People out at this time of night are generally rowdy groups; I'd rather be on my own.”

“That’s fair,” Eagle says thoughtfully. 

“I work other nights anyway, so it’s hard to stay in my apartment. That’s why I'm out here. Doing stuff.”

“I know—” Eagle starts, then winces and corrects. It’s odd. “I mean, I figured.” 

Bucky eyes him carefully. “When everyone important in your life is on a different schedule, you just do something else.”

“Huh,” Eagle says, a puff of breath that hangs in the air between them. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Why would you?” Bucky says.

“Oh I mean,” Eagle says, shrugs. “I’m out here by choice. Wouldn’t have thought of all of that."

Snorting, Bucky unwraps a bit more of the foil. “Guess so. But you start the night shift, you’ll start to notice you’re missing out on a lot.” 

“Starting to figure that out,” Eagle says slowly. 

Bucky looks at him for a minute, then raises the burrito to take the final two bites of his food. Balling up the foil, he goes to throw it out in the bin on the corner when the Eagle stops him, grabs his wrist with one gloved hand and takes the ball of foil with the other. 

“I got this,” Eagle says, and tosses it in a perfect arc to the bin some twenty feet away, hand still on Bucky's wrist. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Impressive.” 

The Eagle tilts his head in a modest nod, belatedly giving Bucky his arm back before they head to the roof to watch. This time Bucky settles with his back to the wall of the parapet wall as the Eagle tracks movement from a standing position.

“So how was your day,” he says and cackles when Eagle gives him a dirty look.

“This is my day,” Eagle says.

“This is the night,” Bucky says, pitching his voice low. He pulls his leg away when Eagle looks like he’s going to tap it with one of the soft soled boots he’s wearing, then scrambles up to lean on the parapet when he remembers something. “Wait, do you see a bread truck?”

“You’re still hungry?”

“A bread delivery truck.”

“Yeah, I think there’s a bakery on this street.” Eagle quiets, concentrating on whatever he’s seeing through night vision goggles.

“There isn’t,” Bucky says. He gets to his feet to see the building again for himself. “I saw it come out of that building last night, but the address is a pharmaceutical company.”

“I thought they sold office equipment,” Eagle says, pulling out some kind of device to look at it for himself. “Shit, it’s right there. These businesses are all linked, but none of them seem to actually exist.” 

“I guess it wasn’t a coincidence,” Bucky says. “Us crossing paths. I knew how to google.”

“Guess not,” Eagle says, eyeing him carefully before raising his goggles again. 

A bread truck leaves the building around two, and they wait until it comes back around four. This time it’s branded down both sides as furniture delivery, but has the same taped-up tail light and broken back window. 

“I knew I wasn’t going crazy,” Eagle says to himself. “Same van, different look.” 

“No one’s going to look twice at a delivery van,” Bucky says. “Why don’t you just put a tracker on it?”

Eagle shakes his head. “If they stole our tech they can detect a tracker, and if they know we’re on to them they’ll just move.” 

“You can’t just watch them do bad things with it,” Bucky protests. There’s been at least one injury so far, if the thing at the hospital was from the lot. 

“That’s circumstantial, the scrambler— your device can’t hurt someone directly,” Eagle says. “Besides, it’s not up to me. I’m part of a team.” 

“And your team doesn’t listen to you?”

“It’s not my team,” Eagle says. “I’m not in charge or anything. We work together, but this is Phoenix's op.”

Bucky laughs once, then looks at Eagle more closely. “Wait, you’re serious? Operation Chicken Coop?” 

“Again, not my idea,” Eagle says. “It’s me, Falcon and Blackbird so far.” 

“No sparrow or chickadee? Pigeon?”

“You can be the pigeon,” Eagle says, raising his goggles towards the right side of the building and smoothly changing the subject. “You think we should move over there, maybe see the entrance better?”

“Maybe,” Bucky says, but doesn’t move. “So you’re just going to wait for proof?” 

“If it’s worth it, we’ll put someone on the inside to see what they can find out.” 

“The end of our midnight rendezvous?” 

“You wish,” Eagle says, looking over at Bucky and doing something with his face. Pretty sure that’s a wink, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

Bucky rolls his eyes at that silliness, but stays to watch Eagle watch the street. When he finally leaves for home, it’s close to six in the morning. 

When he gets back he jumps in the shower, feeling gritty from a night’s worth of rooftops and secrets. The apartment was dark when he came in and he’d left the lights off, able to find his way to the bathroom just by memory. 

He presses the water in his hair out with a towel and wraps another around his waist, ready to head to his room and just collapse into bed for a few hours. The idea of sleep is welcome, though, instead of the sad end to another lonely night off. 

Leaving the bathroom, he steps into brightness, hallway light spilling around Steve as he lets himself in. Steve looks wiped, shoulders rounded under the strap of his bag, and when he steps into the light he’s got a thinness to his face that screams dehydration. 

“You all right?” Bucky asks, pausing halfway across the floor. 

“Yeah, fine,” Steve says. He lets his bag fall off his shoulder, dropping it heavily to the floor. “Work’s just running me a little hard.” 

“Right, work,” Bucky says. Today isn’t the day that Steve’s going to tell him the truth, but he shrugs it off to head to his room. 

“What about you?” Steve says suddenly, just as Bucky reaches the door. 

He shifts his grip on the towel, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice how awkward this is. “Me?” 

“You doing all right?” Steve asks.

“Sure,” Bucky says, surprised to find he means it. He’s not fixated on where Steve was last night, thinking more about when he’s going to meet up with the Eagle again. “Doing great.” 

“Listen, I know I’ve been gone a lot lately,” Steve starts, kneeling to start pulling dirty clothes out of his gym bag from the past few days. 

“It’s all right, your work?” Bucky asks, pushing open his bedroom door. Inside is comfortingly dark. “And whatever else you’ve got going on?” 

“Buck,” Steve says. His hands go still, half in his bag.

“I'm just going to get dressed,” Bucky says, gesturing at the towel.

“Sure, of course,” Steve says. “I should get ready for work anyway.”

Bucky nods and closes his bedroom door, slipping on pyjama bottoms so he’s decent enough to go back out and grab something to eat. He has to move on from the idea that it’s ever going to be a good time for him to tell Steve how he feels, that he’s going to be ready when Steve is single, and right now it feels like he can. 

He heads for the kitchen for food and the chance to say as much to Steve, but Steve’s gone into his bedroom and doesn’t come out until after Bucky’s given up and crawled into bed.

* * *

The rhythm of the ER is familiar, the usual flow of new patients, ongoing treatment and calls. Bucky jumps around from bed to bed as needed for broken limbs and wounds and other miscellaneous injuries, making the shift go by quickly. 

He’s waiting on cardiac test results from a patient complaining about dizziness and headache when he steps out for break. He’s alone out there, embracing the dark and the silence and the chance to think about what Eagle is doing right now, whether he’s missed. 

Meeting might have been an accident, but it’s been nice to just be Bucky, not the Bucky who’s tired of his job or the one who made things awkward with his best friend by catching feelings. Eagle doesn’t know any of it, just that Bucky is funny and halfway decent about solving mysteries.

The surveillance project keeps his mind busy, and he genuinely enjoys spending time in pursuit of truth and justice. He might even help Eagle and his team catch a thief. 

Break over, he heads back in and ends up passing Clint on the way back into the hospital.

“Hey,” Clint says, stepping back inside when he recognizes Bucky. “You all right?”

“I am,” Bucky says and keeps going. It’s true, even if he doesn’t dare tell Clint why he’s doing better, that talking to someone who doesn’t know all of his bullshit and hang ups is kind of nice. 

Therapy might have been a good idea.

He goes back to work, throws himself into it so he can’t think about anything else. It’s still a relief when six am comes and he can clock out. 

Once he’s showered and changed at the end of shift, he sees Clint. They walk out together, Clint eyeing him knowingly but heading out to Bed-Stuy without too many questions.

The rest of his morning is uneventful, and the apartment is empty when he lets himself in. Without Steve around to make things awkward, Bucky’s able to fall asleep and restart his routine in the afternoon without any problems. 

When he gets up it’s drizzling and humid, so he grabs his bag to head to the gym. By the time he’s sweated for an hour, he’s feeling loose and somewhat ready for a busy ER that night. 

He spends his time answering calls from the triage nurse for detailed assessment or breathing assist in serious cases, the usual mix of accidents and incidents. 

A patient comes in around two with severe burns on her hands, starting on her palms and going up the inside of her arms, but there’s no data in the chart as to the cause. Bucky’s called in to determine if her lungs were impacted by smoke inhalation. 

“Something on the stove catch fire?” He asks the patient, who just stares at the curtain pulled around the bed.

The triage nurse, Carter, rolls her eyes behind the patient’s back when Bucky’s listening to her lungs, stethoscope in one ear. 

“Can you tell me just the type of burn?” Carter asks. “Chemical? Thermal?” 

The patient shakes her head. Bucky makes eye contact with Carter over her head. 

“¿Habla español?” Carter tries, but the woman doesn’t respond.

Bucky shrugs, nudging the stethoscope out of his ear and sanitizing the chestpiece before it goes back into his scrubs pocket. “Lungs sound clear,” he tells Carter. With no obvious breathing difficulties and no lingering scent of smoke on her hair or clothes, her injuries aren’t likely to be from a fire. 

“It was like she didn’t care,” Carter says when she sees Bucky later at the nurse’s station. “Like we should just guess what happened.”

“Embarrassed?” Bucky says. He’d thought maybe she’d fallen asleep while cooking and in a panic grabbed a hot pan. 

“Or protecting whoever did it to her,” Carter says. 

It’s not unlikely. They’ve seen plenty of workplace accidents that don’t seem to have a cause, the employer offering to pay under the table to keep it off the record. 

This doesn’t feel like that. The patient’s staunch refusal to say anything, even a lie, makes Bucky suspect the cause was probably illegal. With how close the hospital is to the spot the Eagle’s been staking out, Bucky’s mind goes there. He’s not sure that any of the missing tech is capable of something like this, but since it can screw up a computer, he bets it’s possible. 

Her chart is still irritatingly blank when he checks in on her later in observation, but her hands and arms have been neatly dressed. She’s still scowling, still won’t say where she was when it happened. Carter’s noted the burns seem electrical in nature, adding weight to Bucky’s suspicion that the tech’s involved. 

If he sees Eagle again, he’ll have to tell him. Between lack of detail and confidentiality, he won’t be able to share much, but if it ties back to the theft, it’s important he knows the tech is in use somewhere around Williamsburg. 

* * *

The Eagle finds him the next time he’s off shift, like he’s been waiting for him. They move to a different rooftop along the street, one that’s harder to climb up to but has a better vantage point of the building that seems to be the epicentre. 

Actually, it’s like Eagle knows Bucky’s schedule. It’s creepy to contemplate, but then again Bucky has a bit of a pattern now. He’s off, he’s in Williamsburg, and only too eager to climb up to the roof. 

Tonight they’re up on a postwar red brick that’s three stories. From here they can see the van door and the main entrance of the building opposite. The lights stay on all night, suspicious for this area even if it’s well rented. 

Eagle brought more equipment with him this time, a thermal camera pointed at the building and a serious looking set of binoculars with an Otterbox case around them. The kind of stuff that went missing— he can see why someone would want to steal it.

“You sure you don’t want to try these out?” Eagle asks, tilting them carelessly over the edge of the roof to offer them Bucky’s way. They look like they'd survive getting thrown off the roof, but Bucky doesn’t want to test it. 

“I’m good, I’m good,” Bucky says, waving them off but stepping closer to get a better look. They’re sleek, too sleek for military grade. The grips are inset but rugged, made out of a rubberized plastic that clings to his fingertips when he touches it but falls away when Bucky realizes he’s fondling the binoculars while Eagle is hanging on to them. He clears his throat and moves back. “Are they your company’s?”

“Yeah, Sta— I— someone designed them,” Eagle says.

“Are you having a stroke,” Bucky says, half seriously. “Do you need assistance? I’m a medical professional.”

“St— Stanley designed them,” Eagle says firmly. “At my company.” 

“Weird flex, but okay,” Bucky says. He cackles when Eagle gives him a withering look from behind the mask. 

“Wait,” he says, remembering his patient, the burn victim. “Do you know all of the things they made?” 

“Most of them,” Eagle says. He takes the binoculars and adjusts the settings before lifting them back up to look at the building. “They’re making new stuff all the time, but I try to keep up.” 

“Anything that’s dangerous?”

“Probably,” Eagle says. He lowers the gear and shoots Bucky a dry look over them. “Why do I get the feeling this is about something specific that you won’t actually ask about?”

“Because I can’t actually ask about it,” Bucky says. “But let’s say it caused injury.”

Eagle whips around to face gim, carelessly setting the binoculars down on the top of the parapet. “I should know about that. What kind of injury?”

“I can’t say, really, because I don’t know,” Bucky says, hands itching to put the gear away properly. It’s just one quick movement away from falling a couple stories to the street. “But say it was some kind of electrical accident.” Nothing about that is identifying enough for him to get in trouble with the AMA. 

“That’s really annoying, you know that?” Eagle says, folding his arms over his chest. 

Bucky folds his arms in response, then raises his eyebrows when he looks the Eagle up and down. “Says the man in the mask.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eagle says, rolling his eyes. 

“I can definitely see you do that, only your eyeballs are showing.” Bucky snorts, stepping backwards so he’s further away from the edge of the roof but able to see everything that’s happening on the street below. If it puts more distance between the two of them, he’s not complaining. “But if it was yours, and it’s hurting people, can’t you stop it?”

Raising a hand to press into the space above his brow, Eagle sighs. “It’s not that easy. There’s a lot going on right now.”

It’s an excuse, and not a good one. “But if someone sets themselves on fire by accident thanks to something you built—”

Eagle turns on him so quickly Bucky stops, mid-accusation. “Is that what happened?”

“No, that’s hyperbole,” Bucky says. 

Eagle gives him a look, unimpressed. “Look, if we go in now, we maybe get some pieces back, shut this location down. But then they learn from their mistakes, move and hide it better.”

“So you’re just doing nothing?”

“No,” Eagle says, annoyingly reasonable. “We’re putting someone on the inside instead.” 

“Putting them at risk,” Bucky clarifies. He’s pushing his luck, ignoring the Eagle’s tighter body language and the way he’s turned away to look at the street. 

“We know the risks, and we’re willing to face them.”

“By letting other people risk injury by messing around with stuff they don’t know about— stuff they don’t have a clue about.” 

“Listen,” Eagle says, suddenly looming tall and intense. “This isn’t a moral argument, and not one I’m having with you.”

Bucky closes his mouth, stung. Fuck this. He takes two steps towards the side of the roof, to the slow and undignified climb down the fire escape when something on the street below makes him stop. 

“Wait,” Bucky says, recognizing the redheaded woman headed inside the business front. It’s Natasha, he’d recognize her purposeful stride anywhere. “I know her.”

Eagle shifts back a few steps, expression going carefully blank. “No, you don’t.”

“No I do,” Bucky says. He doesn’t even need the binoculars to know it. “We’re friends. She works with my roommate. Or she used to.” 

“Your roommate,” Eagle repeats. 

Bucky watches Natasha go up to the front and scan herself in, then disappear behind the closed door. 

“Yeah, he works at Stark Industries. The research group, like prototypes and stuff.” 

“Okay,” Eagle says, voice strangled. “But that’s probably not her. Big city, right?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Sure, but doesn’t it make sense? Stolen tech, running his own investigation, that’s Stark all over. If your tech got stolen, his might’ve too.” 

“World’s greatest detective,” Eagle says, blowing out a breath long and slow. “But you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

At least he’s not the Boy Wonder, Bucky thinks grumpily, but he’s still being mocked. “She’s gone now, so I guess we won’t know.”

“Right,” Eagle says. “Unless you’re going to wait for every redhead to leave and quiz them about their job history.”

“I never said what she looked like,” Bucky says slowly. Sure, there were only a few other women down there, but the odds of Eagle guessing correctly are low. 

“I’m here observing,” Eagle says without missing a beat. He’s staring with that same intense energy that has Bucky equally excited and on edge. “I observed that her hair was red.” 

Bucky meets his gaze for a few long minutes, less a challenge and more holding his ground. “All right, whatever,” he says, and whatever tension had risen dissipates with that.

Eagle pulls out his phone to check on something and looks back over at the building. Bucky thinks it’s to check on his contact, because the Eagle isn’t a great liar. Natasha is definitely in on it.

Bucky leaves it alone now, though, steps away from the topic to sit with his back up against one of the access hatches while Eagle resumes lookout. 

It turns out they have a lot in common, when the Eagle’s attention can be drawn away from silently staring into the dark and onto Bucky, sprawled out on the rooftop. They’ve shared enough by now that Bucky admits he looks forward to spending time together. These nights are about more than just keeping busy between shifts. 

What Bucky knows about Eagle— grew up in Brooklyn, single mom, overdeveloped sense of justice— resonates with Bucky in a way he doesn’t dare examine too closely. Eagle isn’t just a replacement for the space Steve’s left, though. He's funny and sharp in a way that has Bucky leaning in instead of away. 

Even the tense moments when they disagree aren’t bad, aren’t enough to force Bucky off the roof and back to his boring life. He stays, choosing the moments to pull Eagle out of whatever brooding vigilante mood he drops into. 

Like asking him who’s more likely to be at the root of this, the Joker or Catwoman. 

“Seriously,” Bucky says, after Eagle just gives him a look and turns back to the street. “My money’s on Catwoman.” 

“Catwoman does not work for my employer,” Eagle says. “And this isn’t random enough to be a Joker situation.” 

“So you do have a theory,” Bucky says triumphantly. 

Eagle shakes his head, turning back at the street. 

“Seriously though,” Bucky says, when Eagle doesn’t offer any positive theories on who’s behind it all. “Any idea on who it couldn’t be? Help me narrow down the playing field.”

“No,” Eagle says. He lowers the goggles and writes something down on his tablet. He didn’t let Bucky see that earlier, making him think it’s probably a piece of tech that shouldn’t be out of a lab. 

“Won’t show me your toys, won’t tell me your secrets, you sure know how to show a guy a good time,” Bucky grumbles, half-serious. 

Eagle lowers the tablet and sighs. “Fine. You. Since you’re here, you’re not on the list. Okay?” 

“Just me,” Bucky says. 

“Sure,” Eagle says. He lowers his head to the tablet again, but it’s perfunctory at best. 

“Not you?”

“All right, two people on the no list,” Eagle says. “Making progress on the case.”

They really haven’t. Bucky’s been here a while, and beyond the breakthrough of the location, there hasn’t been much to speak of. Unless Eagle’s gotten some insight he’s not sharing. Bucky shifts against the brick, wiping his hands together to brush off the dirt. “You’ve been here a while, and no real clues?”

“So have you,” Eagle says. He sets the tablet to the side and picks up a different piece of tech from the backpack he’d brought. He doesn’t explain this one either. “Nothing to wow me with?”

“Just my jokes,” Bucky says.

Eagle snorts, but Bucky would swear he’s smiling under the mask. 

“See,” Bucky says, pleased, and settles in for the rest of the night. It’s true he’s been out here for a long time, feeling like he’s helping but really just avoiding thinking about what’s next for him in terms of work. 

It’s the major decision the rest of his happiness hinges on, what he’d do if he left the hospital. And he still has nothing. 

“What would you do,” Bucky asks Eagle, waiting until he’s done calibrating the thin, iPad-like piece of glass he’s scanning the building with for an answer. He’s dying to know what exactly he’s doing, but expects to get about as far as he did with his list of suspects. 

“About what,” Eagle says distractedly, focusing on the tablet.

“If you weren’t happy with your job,” Bucky says. “Do you know what you’d do instead?” 

“If this is a lead up to job performance—” Eagle starts, shoulders rising defensively as he turns to look at Bucky. 

“No, more like—”

“—I’m still not accusing anyone, I don’t care that my suspect rate is zero per cent,” Eagle says sharply. 

“Okay, fine,” Bucky says. 

He gets up because he can see the hint of sunrise over the edge of the tall building to his right. He shouldn’t expect to get his answer here either, only from himself.

“Well, ah, I’ll see you later,” Bucky says. He goes back on shift for three tomorrow, but doesn’t exactly want to say that to feel like he’s asking permission to do his job. 

“Cookies,” Eagle blurts out when Bucky has one hand on the parapet, preparing to get down. This one has a fire escape on the back side so it’s a lot easier.

Bucky stops, pulls his leg back over and turns around. “What?”

“Next time you come,” Eagle says awkwardly, almost shy. “You should bring cookies. Stake out snacks.”

“Next time,” Bucky repeats, a bit of a question in it. 

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back,” Bucky says. “Just gotta save a few lives first. Then cookies.”

Eagle doesn’t say anything to that, but Bucky knows that he watches to make sure Bucky gets to the ground safely. 

* * *

That morning when he sleeps, Bucky dreams about slowly taking the mask off Eagle’s face and—

He needs a shower when he gets up. 

* * *

He’s back in the ER when he signs into his shift the next night, making him check to see if he’s been reassigned. It looks like they’re down a resp nurse that’s normally in the rotation, making him the lucky one to rotate in. 

Being down a nurse would make it harder for him to move shifts in the hospital, to go to days, but Bucky’s starting to think he doesn’t want to. The pressure of the ER is wearing on him, to the point where he’ll call it stress and mean it.

He’s running between beds in the trauma ward when he sees someone he thinks he knows, making him slow mid-step to catch a second glance. Natasha, he thinks, but she’s already turned into one of the bays, so he can’t be sure.

If she’s here in Bucky’s Brooklyn hospital, something is wrong. He’d seen her in Brooklyn exactly once, deigning to join them at the start of Steve’s birthday bar crawl and then disappearing somewhere between the third and fourth destinations. 

She’s a mystery in the best ways, teasing Steve in one breath and completely serious the next. The first time Bucky had met her, he could see why she was Steve’s favourite teammate, even if Bucky didn’t feel a connection until later. A late night at her apartment in Tribeca, Natasha watching him watch Steve until Bucky flushed, embarrassed. She’d asked him if Steve knew, nodded when he said no, and never mentioned it again. 

When he crosses the floor to check in at triage, she’s standing just outside the bay on her phone. She’s carrying herself differently, managing an illusion that carves an inch or two of height off. It looks unnatural to his eyes even as it fits with the ill-fitting clothes she’s wearing. If he didn’t know her, he wouldn’t have looked twice. 

“So what has you in my neighbourhood,” he says to her, careful not to look into the bay. Not his patient, not his business. 

“I’m sorry?” She says, pulling her eyes away from her phone to look at him without recognition. 

“Little far from Tribeca,” he says, because this is way out of her way. He takes a step back when she just looks at him blankly. Shit. 

Sparing a glance to the man she’d come in with, Bucky’s relieved to find him unconscious, oblivious to Bucky’s fumbling attempts at small talk. When he turns back to Natasha, she’s watching him steadily, but as he watches, she shifts back into disinterested. It’s too late, though, he knows that she’s playing at something. 

If she’s the inside man at the facility, despite Eagle’s denials, then her presence here in Brooklyn could be linked back to that. She seems fine, but the man she brought clearly isn’t. 

Bucky steps closer to the bed to read the intake form. His triage lists burns to his hands and arms along with an injury to his head. He’s already received some treatment for his injuries, getting fluids through an IV, so there isn’t any reason why he should linger. He does anyway, evaluating the burn pattern visible through the loosely wrapped gauze for any similarities to the woman from earlier. 

He’s grasping, but something about Natasha’s presence here in Brooklyn after seeing her near the stakeout point doesn’t sit right. If she’s the inside man, despite what Eagle says, then her friend’s injury could easily have come from there. 

She might’ve gone into this assignment eyes open, but the people that work there may not have had the same luxury. They won’t know what they're dealing with, what the risks are, making the lack of action feel worse. 

But Bucky knows he’s jumping to conclusions. He has no proof, nothing more than a couple of suspicions, and he definitely doesn’t belong in this patient’s bay.

“Uh, sorry,” Bucky says, moving away from the man in the bed. 

“You’re in over your head,” Natasha says quietly. “Stay away from me.” 

No one else in the ER notices, but Bucky turns and walks away, far enough that he’s almost out of the ER and into the main lobby. He stands there for a second, clenching his fists until they hurt. 

He’s had it before, people coming in that he knows. All he has to do is inform the floor nurse, make sure he isn’t in the right area to answer a call. Still, he hesitates, because if he does that he’ll link himself with whoever Natasha’s pretending to be now. 

He tells the other nurse on duty instead, acting like Natasha’s an ex he wants to stay away from, off the record, and it buys him the space he needs until the patient is released. He stays tense, though, through his break outside with Clint and through the rest of his shift. 

Twice now he’s been told he doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s starting to get on his nerves. He was the one to figure out the delivery van scheme, then realize that none of the businesses seem to actually exist. Small contributions, but they’re there. 

If he says anything, it could spell the end of being the sidekick. Annoying as it is to be treated like an idiot, he’s started to depend on the nights out— enough that he’s bringing cookies out the next time he’s off to smooth everything over. 


	3. Chapter 3

At first, he thinks he must have beaten Eagle to the roof. It’s dark and quiet when he climbs over the edge, six-pack of cookies from a place near his apartment tucked under his arm. 

Then, when he’s wondering whether it’s weird to hang out here and wait, he sees movement, Eagle with a dark cloth over his head and shoulders like a photographer. He’s calibrating some equipment, blocking out any light that could give away his position up here. 

He squints at Bucky, eyes slow to adjust to the difference in light. 

“Brought snacks,” Bucky says and holds up the box. 

“Ah yes,” Eagle says, dusting off his knees and getting to his feet. He stops short when he looks at the box Bucky’s holding. 

“What are those?”

“Cookies,” Bucky says, shaking the box. “This place near my apartment, they do late night delivery—”

“I know it,” Eagle says quickly, then shakes his head. “I mean, I’ve heard of it.” 

“Well, they’re good,” Bucky says and offers the box. 

Eagle doesn’t take the hint, stands there staring at the logo on the top of the box like it’s going to bite him. 

Bucky flips open the cookie box to pick over his selections. It’s stupid of him, but he’d picked out Steve’s favourites by habit, and no nuts because of his allergy. 

He goes for a classic chocolate chip with M&Ms. He can’t remember the last time he had a cookie, but it’s good and reminds him of old times, stress-baking and feeding Steve when he was studying.

It’s that nostalgia that has Bucky bringing him up. “You still friends with people outside of work?”

“What?” Eagle says, stooping back down by his equipment. From what Bucky can tell he’s fiddling, but maybe it is actual work. 

“Like in your other life. You have friends, right?”

“I have friends,” Eagle says defensively.

“A butler doesn’t count.” Bucky shuts the lid on the cookies sloppily, then takes a small bite of the one he’s chosen. He loses himself in it for a second: butter, sugar, and the crunch of candy coating. It’s kind of a nice treat, not that he’d say anything to Eagle about it. 

“I don’t have a butler,” Eagle is saying. 

“Just checking,” Bucky says.

“I know people, plus I work with my friends.” Eagle shifts some of the screens around, then shakes the cloth over them again.

“Proximity friends,” Bucky says. Maybe that’s all he can hope for as he gets older, when he gets too busy for people he’s not already seeing in the course of work.

Eagle settles back on his heels and glances over. “What’s this about?” 

“Wondering if I was stupid to think I’d have friends forever,” Bucky mutters. He takes a bigger chunk of the cookie. 

“You have friends,” Eagle says confidently. “Don’t you? Coworkers, people from school, people who get you. A roommate?” 

“Sure,” Bucky says. Honestly, it’s tough to hold up his side of a friendship when he’s always working or sleeping. It’s been a while since he’s hung out with any of them. Clint, Gabe, Monty— but especially Steve. 

“We’re friends,” Eagle says, then looks at him. “Are we friends?”

“We just happen to be sharing a rooftop,” Bucky says sarcastically. “And some cookies.” He offers the box again. 

“I can’t eat nuts, I should have said,” Eagle says as he gets to his feet. 

“Nut free,” Bucky says, shaking it enticingly. “You didn’t make me buy these sugar bombs to not eat any.”

“Fair,” Eagle says and opens the lid to take the snickerdoodle. He realizes too late that he can’t eat it with the mask on, but Bucky isn’t about to take it back. 

“Go on, eat it in your privacy tent,” Bucky says, closing the box again to hand it over. “I’ll hang out over here, solving the case.” 

Eagle takes the cookies and retreats to the setup, draping the cloth over his head and upper body. “Really good at it too,” he says, muffled under the cloth. 

Bucky clears his throat noisily to pull his attention away from the tempation of the Eagle’s identity and settles in against the rise of the parapet, facing away from the street. “So theories on who’s doing this.” 

“This again?” Eagle says, mouth full and still under the tent.

“Shh, I’m investigating,” Bucky says. He thinks about what happened to Stark, booting long-time COO Stane and the mess that followed. It’d kept Steve at work late, reclassifying the ongoing projects to stay firmly away from the weapons trade. “Option one, ousted C-level or board member out for revenge because their vision for the company isn’t—”

Eagle interrupts. “No recent changes in leadership, plus it’s a private company. So no board.” 

“Clue number one,” Bucky says. “You’re playing right into my hands, codename the Eagle.”

Eagle reaches outside of the tent to flip him off, justifiably. 

“Option two, fired employee out for revenge because their vision wasn’t accepted. Or they think they're underappreciated?” 

“Exit interviews are clean,” Eagle says. 

Bucky purses his lips. He’d almost say Eagle was enjoying this, even if it’s just that he thinks Bucky’s wrong. “Unpaid and misguided intern, angry because they’re working for free?”

“We pay them,” Eagle says. “Sorry.”

“You merged with Canadians, because you’re too darn polite,” Bucky says without sincerity, “but now they’re out for revenge.”

“What’s wrong with being polite?” 

“Only a Canadian would think that,” Bucky says. “So much for the American eagle.”

“I’m from Brooklyn,” Eagle says, annoyed but with a note of humour. Bucky’s pleased to note that three cookies are gone, having disappeared under the tent.

“Forgot we covered your origin story already,” Bucky says. 

“What’s yours?” Eagle asks. He pulls the cloth away to sit with one of the tablets on his lap, mask firmly back in place. “What turns a guy from all-night Netflix binges to the rooftops of Brooklyn?”

“I was in love,” Bucky says without planning on it. He wets his lips, but Eagle isn’t looking at him. “But he doesn’t love me back. So I have to let him go and get over it.” 

“And?” Eagle clears his throat. 

“Now I roam the streets at night to save star crossed lovers from my fate,” Bucky says. “All good origin backstories have tragedy, don’t they?”

“I hope not,” Eagle says. 

“You know the worst part?” Bucky says and continues without waiting for an answer. “We live together, so letting go means everything’s going to change.”

“He’s your roommate,” Eagle says, voice a bit strangled. He taps at the tablet a little too hard. 

“You’re not having a homophobic freak out, are you?”

“No,” Eagle says, but he’s clearly working through something because he’s staring at Bucky instead of the street.

“You wanna—” Bucky says, and Eagle jerks forward, stiff and weird. “You wanna watch the street?” 

“Right,” Eagle says. He fumbles with his tablet, half-rising to twist and duck back under the cloth to watch for heat signals or whatever. 

The line of his back is stiff, and Bucky hopes that it doesn’t get weird. The casualness between them is gone, replaced by an expectation of something he can’t quite name. 

It goes quiet. Maybe Bucky’s made it awkward, talking about someone else he has feelings for and ruining the moment. 

Thinking about Steve is painful. He misses Steve, doesn’t know when they drifted so far apart that he’d started hoping Steve wasn’t around in the mornings when he got in. If Steve dating was what pushed them apart, Bucky shouldn’t be mad at anyone but himself. 

With that thought he decides to go home, leaving the Eagle with the singular leftover cookie. Eagle mumbles something when Bucky slips over the edge of the roof to the fire escape, maybe thanks or see you later. 

Bucky calls, “you’re welcome” over the edge of the roof, hoping that whatever tension he’d raised is gone the next time he shows up. 

He plans on breaking his rule and sleeping a little now, napping before six, so he can be up well before Steve gets home from his boyfriend’s. 

Bucky makes a face at that, thinking of it that way. But not admitting it won’t make it go away, so he should start getting used to it.

* * *

When he lets himself in, it’s dark and quiet. Even the dog down the hall that barks every morning when he walks past must be sleeping. 

Bucky wanders the apartment, flipping the lights on in the living room, then the kitchen. He tries sitting on the couch to wait, but it feels aggressive, too much like a parent waiting up for a kid past curfew. 

He ends up in the kitchen, noticing the mail left on the counter and a dirty mug pushed up to the backsplash behind the coffeemaker. Once he’s seen that, the whole room seems filthy, and just wiping the counters doesn’t feel like enough. Might as well use the time he’d spend waiting on cleaning it up. 

Steve still isn’t home by the time he’s done putting everything back in the kitchen, or when he’s finished the window by the fire escape that gets palm prints whenever they crank it open to let in a breeze. 

He changes the sheets on his bed for something else to do, fighting to get the duvet into the cover when he notices soft sounds coming from the rest of the apartment.

Steve’s back then, gym bag set carefully by his shoes. He’s in the kitchen, pulling out fruit and vegetables to make a smoothie. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, steeling himself to talk to his best friend. It’s bullshit, but it works.

“How’ve you been,” he asks Steve, edging into the kitchen to give his hands something to do.

“Really,” Steve says, half under this breath. 

“What?” Bucky stops by the fridge, but Steve is carefully staring at the cupboards in front of him. 

“Nothing,” Steve says. He drops his eyes to the ingredients on his cutting board, then reaches for a knife. He’s careful as he slices the cucumber, deliberately focusing on what he’s doing instead of Bucky. 

“No, seriously, what does that mean?” Bucky asks, ignoring the voice that says now is not the time.

Steve heaves a sigh, turning from the counter to look at him. He raises his eyebrows, expectant. 

Bucky stops pretending he’s in here for a reason, holding one hand out as an invitation for Steve to explain what the hell this is all about. 

Folding his arms over his chest, Steve leans back against the counter. “You wanna do this? The whole how have you been, long time no see?” 

“I’m just talking,” Bucky says, but he’s starting to wish he wasn’t.

“We live together, Bucky,” Steve says, like that’s supposed to explain away his weird intensity at a simple question. He holds himself stiffly for a long minute before he slumps, whatever’s simmering under the surface draining away. “So why ask me that?”

“I was just thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve seen you,” Bucky says, voice dropping into something too close to how he really feels, but he can’t do anything about it. “So I was just asking how you’ve been.”

“Yeah, all right,” Steve says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve been doing okay.”

“Good, good,” Bucky says. He opens the fridge, but he’s lost all desire to take anything out. Turning back, he catches Steve staring at him. 

He has this look like he’s never seen Bucky before in his life, something soft and— Bucky doesn’t want to examine it too closely, trying to find something that just isn’t there, but it feels like affection turned up to 11. His face practically goes hot with it. 

“Buck,” Steve says, softly. 

“I should meet him,” Bucky says, interrupting whatever thing Steve was going to tell him. He doesn’t think he’s ready. “The guy keeping you out all night.”

“You have,” Steve says, eyes steady on Bucky’s. “You’ve met him.”

“Of course.” Bucky nods, because of course it’s someone he already knows. It’s worse this way, but he doesn’t let on. 

“Yeah, you—” Steve cuts himself off when his phone rings and he pulls it out to look at it. “Shit, this is work. Can we...?” 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “You just go.”

Steve takes the call in his room, closing the door behind him. 

Bucky sighs, feeling the tension in the room leave with Steve. He’s almost afraid to talk to Steve right now, to say something he shouldn’t and expose all of the rawness he feels at any given moment— at least until he figures out how to deal with it. 

He turns back to the kitchen, finishes cutting Steve’s fruit and vegetables. Dropping ingredients into the blender, he sets it to the side before washing the cutting board. He keeps puttering, taking ingredients out to bake snickerdoodles before he realizes that Steve never came back.

Tapping on the bedroom door, Bucky steels himself for part two of their conversation while he waits for an answer, but Steve's quiet on the other side. Opening the door a crack, Bucky finds Steve sprawled out on his bed, sound asleep with the lights blazing. 

Steve looks softer like this, unwound, one hand curled over his chest and face turned to the side like he’d just laid down for a minute. 

Bucky stands there, lost in thought. The way Steve looked at him before, almost like he was thinking what Bucky's been thinking for the past four years— no. He can’t let himself think that. 

Stepping back, Bucky flips the lights off and shuts the door. It’s already seven, but Bucky’s sure that Steve has an alarm for work if he’s planning on going in. Maybe he’s claiming some lieu time with the long days he’s putting in. 

In any case, it’s none of his business. 

What is his business is it’s past time when he should be sleeping. Bucky returns to the kitchen to put the smoothie into the fridge along with the eggs and butter. Forget the cookies.

* * *

Steve’s gone when he gets up, but so is the smoothie from the fridge. Bucky counts that as a good sign, enough that when he sees the request from the hospital to come in for coverage, he’s willing to take it. 

It means a night away from the roof, but maybe it’s good to get a little space. He hadn’t expected it to get weird like that when he’d aired the thing about Steve. The only thing he can think of is whether it shifted their interactions from casual into something Eagle wasn’t ready for. 

Whatever it is, it’s happened, and now he has to deal with it. Maybe giving it a little time to sit will help the awkwardness resolve and go back to normal. 

He’s in the ICU that night, assigned to just three beds for the shift. All seem to be stable this evening, so he has the time to linger with someone who sleeps restlessly to make sure they’re warm enough in the cool of the ward. Providing care like this is more of his preference, away from being pulled in all directions in the frenetic pace of the ER.

It also means he gets a chance to take his break at the same time as Clint. Spending so much time in the ER’s forced him away from this small piece of normal, and he welcomes it back. 

It’s nice to stand in the dark and quiet, shooting the shit with Clint. Well, nice right up until Clint asks him how his soul searching is going. 

“Honestly?” Bucky laughs it off. As much as he knows he needs change, he doesn’t want to take a chance on making the wrong choice. “It’s not.” 

Clint doesn’t say anything to that, just tips his head back against the brick, but Bucky can feel the judgement anyway. 

“Position coming up on days, so I hear,” Clint says after a minute. “Not dedicated respiratory, but not ER either.” 

“Huh,” Bucky says, both grateful and annoyed that Clint’s been asking around for him. He should have made up his mind by now, or at least figured out the things he doesn’t want to do. 

“Don’t tell me, you want to switch to admin,” Clint says. “I can’t take the betrayal.” 

“I just need out of here,” Bucky says. It feels like a weight lifted off when he says it, finally that he’s admitted he’s started to hate his job. He lets his breath out slowly, doesn’t feel the urge to retract it so maybe he’s on the right track.

“Teaching? Clint asks, pulling a face. 

Bucky makes one in response. “Out of the hospital, not medicine entirely. A clinic, maybe the respiratory education centre. I don’t know yet.” 

“Okay, cool,” Clint says. He rubs his hands together for a minute, then clears his throat. “When you just weren’t saying anything, I wondered if something had changed. You seemed different.” 

“Just found something to do on my nights off,” Bucky says.

“Other than work?” Clint asks with mock surprise. 

“Other than that.” Bucky looks out over the parking lot, shoving his hands into his scrubs pockets. He still has a half-empty roll of surgical tape in there, the end folded over to make it easier to use. “I started hanging out with someone. We’re...working on a project.”

Getting to his feet, Clint comes up to Bucky’s shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say you met someone, you know, getting over that unrequited thing.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, but he’s not sure it’s true. 

“There’s still hope then,” Clint says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passes him to head back inside. 

On that, Bucky agrees. He doesn’t tell Clint about the moment he and Steve had that morning, sure that Clint would push him off the parking garage level for bringing up yet another thing he won’t do anything about. 

Instead he goes back to work, focusing on his patients and their needs for the remaining six hours until he’s off shift. As soon as he’s clear, though, showered and damp hair neatly braided, he wonders what’s waiting back at the apartment. 

The short answer is nothing, because Steve has clearly been gone since before Bucky got up yesterday. There’s no dirty dishes left behind and only a single pair of shoes sitting out. 

Actually, the shoes make Bucky pause, considering. They’re Steve’s favourites, a classic suede sneaker he’s been replacing each time they wear out. To see them here is like Bucky going out without a hair elastic. It just doesn’t happen. 

Like an asshole, Bucky opens up the cabinet to see what Steve left in, like he’s some shoe detective. His pair for work are still sitting there, the glossy leather ones he wears for meetings with the higher-ups. The first time he’d worn them he’d come back half-scandalized, half-impressed because Tony Stark wore Nikes. 

Bucky takes a step back, assessing. What is Steve doing that he doesn’t need either of his usual shoes? He’s starting to think this isn’t about the boyfriend. 

He waits up until eight to see if Steve will come back to change before going back to work, but there’s no sign of him, no answers to the text he sends out either. When he looks for the group chat he has with Steve, Sam and Natasha, it’s buried on his phone with months since the last message. 

Closing the app on his phone, he plugs it into the charger and tries not to think about it when he climbs into bed to sleep. 

But then he’s up and out of his room to check on Steve’s social accounts, his Instagram and his Twitter. They’re just as sparse as before, carefully curated to look like Steve is a real person, but Bucky recognizes the gaps. 

* * *

He goes for a run when he gets up in the afternoon, from the apartment to the loop at Prospect Park. He does the perimeter twice before he walks back, grateful for the warmth he can feel all the way down to his toes, the new awareness of his body that comes after each workout.

With summer on the horizon, the number of days he’ll have the option of running outside are numbered. It’ll be impossible to run in the full heat of the afternoon, meaning he can either run when he’s tired or choose the treadmill. 

For now he enjoys the sun on his shoulders, feeling loose. 

At home, his bed is a temptation, one he doesn’t dare give more than a passing glance. Instead he keeps busy in the apartment, scrubbing the bathroom after he’s showered and then sorting his sock drawer so he’ll be ahead when he goes back to work. 

It’s all for nothing. Steve doesn’t come back after work either. 

It gets dark early, the sky overcast with the threat of rain. The humidity’s ramped up like crazy with it, bringing a dense heat that has Bucky’s hair curling around his temples. He pulls it back and up, off his neck, and winces when he catches sight of it in his reflection. Maybe a hat will work. 

It turns out to be a good idea, since it starts spitting when he heads out to the rooftop. His hair won’t get any better like this, but at least the hat covers the worst of his sins. 

He’s careful when he approaches the side of the building, wiping his hands onto his jeans before he climbs up a fire escape slippery with rain. When he reaches the top of the roof, it’s empty. It takes him by surprise, and when he walks down the length of it he can’t see any trace of the past couple of weeks, of him or the Eagle or his equipment. 

It’s like it never happened. 

Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets, curling his shoulders to block the rain from running down the back of his shirt and feels like he’s lost something. 

Shit, he thinks, breathing out slowly. He’s been obsessed with this stakeout since that first night, but he has nothing invested beyond satisfying his curiosity. If this is done, if the Eagle’s out of his life, it shouldn’t matter. 

But he has to admit it matters a lot.

“I thought you were done,” Eagle says from behind him, deep voice cutting across the rooftop. “You weren’t here last night.”

Bucky turns around, ignoring the flicker of something in his chest at the thought that he isn’t— that this isn’t done. “I had to work.”

“You didn’t— oh,” Eagle says, looking sheepish even behind the mask. “I didn’t think of that.” 

“I’m on the night shift, sometimes that means I have to work nights,” Bucky says.

“Right,” Eagle says. He clears his throat, swinging his backpack from his shoulder to dump it on the ground. He unzips the top but doesn’t pull anything out yet. 

Bucky doesn’t move. He’s more exposed than he usually is, standing in the middle of the rooftop this way, but he’s waiting on Eagle’s lead.

“I’m on backup duty tonight,” Eagle says, dropping to a knee to pull a dark grey rain shell from his bag and holding it out to Bucky. “We have someone on the inside, and someone else is watching the doors.”

Bucky takes the shell, sliding his arms through the sleeves and pulling the hood up. He wants to ask why Eagle’s assignment has changed, if it’s because he was preoccupied with Bucky’s absence yesterday, but just watches Eagle put on his own rain gear instead. 

“Does that mean I should go?” He asks. 

“If you want,” Eagle says, but moves to sit on the rooftop, back against the brick of the egress structure so he can still see most of the roof. It’s clearly an invitation, even if he’s carefully not looking and pulling out his phone instead. 

Bucky looks at the Eagle, considering, and chooses to hang on. He settles in beside Eagle with a few feet of safety between them. 

“If you missed me yesterday, you can say so,” Bucky says to the side of Eagle’s masked face. He has the shell on but the hood’s still down. 

“I would never,” Eagle says. From this close, Bucky can see the water beading on Eagle’s mask and feel the heat of his body— he turns back to look straight ahead, doesn’t let himself think on that too long.

Maybe sitting is a bad idea because it’s damp underneath his ass, but the rain jacket keeps his shoulders dry. 

“You ever take a night off?” Bucky asks, shifting a bit to get comfortable. 

“Does crime?” Eagle says, putting on a voice that’s too big and deep for the rooftop, halfway between 60s announcer and politician. He ducks his head when Bucky brings a hand out to swat at him. 

“Honestly,” Bucky says, pulling his arms back in over his chest. “You’re really just after one crime here.”

“I can multitask, can’t I?” Eagle says around a laugh. It makes Bucky laugh too, and they both turn to look at each other. Gaze lingering, Bucky recognizes something in the blue of Eagle’s eyes. This was always about more than just curiosity or helping a guy with a weird project, and it warms him down to his toes to see what he’s feeling reflected back at him.

“Sure, lots of potential criminals involved,” Bucky says, deliberately breaking the moment and looking away. “That is, if you’d give me a hint.”

Eagle shakes his head. “I trust you, but not that much.” 

Bucky swallows, trying not to let Eagle see how much he likes being trusted. “Be prepared for more shitty guesses then.”

“You like being wrong?”

“No,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. “I can’t say I do.”

He looks over to see Eagle’s watching the side of his face, but he meets Bucky’s gaze evenly when he turns. They sit like that for a long minute, but then Eagle’s eyes crinkle like he’s smiling under the mask. 

“No, you never did,” Eagle says quietly. 

Bucky tips his head in acknowledgement, wondering how well Eagle thinks he knows him after this couple of weeks to say that, but doesn’t comment.

The case is quiet that night, no one calling Eagle for backup. They end up talking, mostly looking out over the roof but sharing enough glances that Bucky is getting ideas. 

It would have been a good night for snacks, for Eagle to let Bucky in on who he is. But it also doesn’t matter. Bucky likes this, that the only things he knows about Eagle are the things he’s been told. Stuff that won’t add up to reveal a secret identity, but decisions Eagle has made about what to share with him still matter. 

Whatever this is, it isn’t one-sided. 

He tries not to look at Eagle too much, turning this realization over without letting it show on his face.

“I should go,” Bucky says, before the Eagle is done with his shift on backup. It’s not sunrise yet, but it’s coming. 

When he stands, Eagle gets up too. They’re close together, enough that Bucky could reach out and take Eagle’s hand if he wanted.

“I’m working the next few days, so I won’t be coming around,” Bucky says instead, shifting his weight to his back foot to lessen the pull of Eagle’s presence. 

“I won’t panic,” Eagle says, then winks at Bucky. “This time at least.” 

“Yeah, all right,” Bucky says and turns to go, heading down the building with a tingling in his fingers that has nothing to do with the cool evening.

Relationships always come to this point: a choice to go from feeling to action, to choose yes or no.

Maybe a part of him won’t ever be over Steve, not completely. Steve was the first person he could see himself with for the rest of his life, and he’ll always remember that. And that’s okay, if there’s a bigger part, the better part of him, for someone else.

He looks up at the roof to see Eagle standing over the parapet, watching him make his way safely down. He waves, and Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he waves back. He chooses yes.

* * *

Going back to work feels lighter this time, making it easier to face three days on. He’s also assigned to the ICU so that routine helps. 

There’s never any openings for ICU or NICU days, though, so he can’t exactly push in that direction. If he did move to days outside of the hospital, nights out would stop— or at least change. He’d have a couple of hours in the evening, or try to see Eagle outside of his work like they were both normal people.

The thought of normal— moving away from the familiarity of the night shift and into the unknown rhythms of a seven to five— actually has some appeal. It’d change his whole life, but that’s what he’s ready for.

He’s not going to just let things happen to him anymore. He carries that thought through to seeing Clint on day two, when they go on break together.

“It’s raining,” Clint tells him when they meet up, leading the way to the cafeteria instead.

Bucky waves off Clint’s offer of coffee when they get there, digging out his container of sweet potato and quinoa. The avocado’s just starting to look a little brown around the edges, so he mixes it aggressively together to disguise it before eating. 

Clint looks tired, keeping his left side turned away until he goes to sit and shows off the dregs of a black eye.

“...should I see the other guy?” Bucky asks, pointing at Clint’s eye with his fork.

“Don’t,” Clint says and flinches back, waving the fork off. “It’s nothing like that.”

Frowning, Bucky assesses the area. It’s a few days old, already showing signs of healing. “You get jumped?”

“No, it’s nothing,” Clint turns his face a little further away. Bruising always looks bad, but it doesn’t seem like it was an awful injury. 

Bucky forces himself to relax, to let it go. “You’d tell me if it was?”

“Course,” Clint says, holding his hand out in a maybe gesture. 

“Don’t think I believe you.” Bucky shakes his head. 

“Really, it’s nothing,” Clint says. “Just a disagreement with my neighbour. You know how that is.”

Bucky isn’t sure but drops it and digs into his food instead. He should have done something different for the dressing, it’s too lemony and gone sharp in the time it’s been in his lunch bag. 

“If it becomes something,” Bucky finally says, watching Clint’s face. 

“Then you’ll hear about it,” Clint says, then rips open his own lunch bag to signal the conversation is over. “Any new developments with that guy, the one you don’t have a crush on?”

“No,” Bucky says, but he knows it’s written on his face. 

“Oh, come on,” Clint says. “You’re hiding something.” 

“No, I’m not,” Bucky says, even though he totally is. “It just feels too...new.” 

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Clint is smiling like it’s fine, then winces and presses at his eye. 

“You sure about that?” Bucky asks, and gestures at it. 

“Yes nurse,” Clint says, and seems better when he returns to his plain cheese sandwich. 

Clint doesn’t ask about how his job reflection is going, whether it’s finally turned into a search, and that keeps Bucky honest. He actually looks up the job posting board for the hospital network after he’s done his shift to see what’s out there. There isn’t anything, but he bookmarks the page for later to watch for upcoming openings.

It’s just a start, but that’s what his life is now. All possibilities, all potential. It’s still better than a few weeks ago when everything felt like it was stacked against him. 

He texts the Howlies for support instead and the group chat goes wild— or at least it does once everyone starts getting up for the early shift, other replies trickling in later. Bucky’s on his way home by then, showered and stuck in a packed subway car. 

_ Baby steps  _ comes from Dum Dum, enough of a guide to get him back into the apartment with Steve. 

Well, kind of. Steve isn’t around, but his stuff is. His coat’s dropped by the entryway, a shirt left in the door to his room, and a shoe halfway between them. Actually, the shoe is one of Bucky’s, so he can’t say too much about that. 

He ends up collecting it all, going into Steve’s bedroom to toss his clothes onto his bed. The room’s empty, but the bed is made. Bucky has no idea how long it’s been since Steve slept there, and he doesn’t want to dwell on it. Shutting the door after himself, he goes to his own room to sleep. 

After a fairly unsatisfying rest, he gets up and goes to the gym. His sets focus on his chest and arms today, finishing off with some burnout burpees and squats until he feels like he’s gotten his money’s worth. 

He showers at the gym before walking back home, where it doesn't look like Steve’s been home at all. No dirty dishes in the kitchen, room undisturbed, and Bucky really needs to stop looking. 

Instead he showers and then naps before getting dressed to go out. He picks out his nicer pair of jeans, even though it’s dark and no one will see it. 

Grabbing a hoodie in case the temperature drops again overnight, he heads out to the roof. Eyeing the fire escape for a second, Bucky slips the sweatshirt on and zips it halfway up. He’s not sure what’s going to happen when he gets up there, now that he’s made a conscious decision about why he’s here and what he wants, but he’s going to find out. 

He takes a deep breath and starts to climb. When his eyes adjust to the darkness of the roof, he can see Eagle down at the far end. He’s on the phone, but he brightens when he sees Bucky, holding a hand up in acknowledgement as he finishes his call. 

He comes over once he’s hung up, Bucky panicking internally about how to greet him. He should act normal, not do anything to make it weird. Baby steps, he thinks, echoing Dum Dum’s text from earlier, and settles on a nod. 

“I have something to show you,” Eagle says, already turning away to pick up a new device. This one is another heavy-duty screen connected to a secondary unit on a tripod by several wires, looking like a work in progress. 

“So what does this one do?” Bucky asks, trying to shake off the feeling he’s a couple of steps behind Eagle tonight. 

“Combination body heat scanner,” Eagle says, pointing at the unit, then shows Bucky the tablet display. “With monitoring software, so we can see the signatures of the employees we’ve identified and be alerted if they’re coming off their usual behaviour patterns.” 

Including the person they have on the inside, Bucky realizes, noting one figure with a spot in a shade of blue nowhere else on the display. Natasha. 

Eagle’s pulled a floor plan overlay to show the rooms with the most traffic, the Natasha figure right in the middle of it. “We think those might be the testing labs.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says, following Eagle when he steps back with the screen to watch from a distance. They’ve been staking out this building for so long he’s skeptical about this step towards progress. It’s just data collection, and although Bucky feels like he’s seen fewer suspicious cases in the ER, he doesn’t think injuries from the work being done inside have stopped. 

Eagle hasn’t mentioned more tech going missing, not since they changed their protocols and employee access. Either someone can’t steal any more, or they stole all they wanted before they left. 

He floats the theories by Eagle, who gives him a long look but doesn’t respond to either. They’re sitting close together again, Bucky letting one of his knees rest against Eagle’s thigh but neither of them talking about it. 

“What about your work, how was it,” Eagle says, shifting his screen to the side away from Bucky and settling in. 

“Oh, are we at that stage now?” Bucky asks, but waves it off when Eagle tries to justify it. “Work was good, no one died.” 

“I’m a little concerned that that’s the baseline for good,” Eagle says. 

“It’s healthcare,” Bucky says, because it’s always been around small markers of success like making one person feel better or alleviating some worries. “My friend might be in a little thing.” 

“What, ah, what kind of thing,” Eagle says, clearing his throat. “With work?” 

“No, no, his landlord, or someone in his building, I don’t remember,” Bucky says. He gestures to his face where Clint had been bruised. “They got into something.” 

Eagle relaxes a bit, adjusting the tablet on his knee. “Do you need someone to check it out? Anonymously?” 

“Made me promise not to,” Bucky says with a reluctant shrug. “And what can I do anyway? Confirm my own suspicions? He’ll let me know if it’s anything serious.”

Eagle nods slowly, looking at Bucky steadily. “You’re a good friend.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says hoarsely, not daring to clear his throat and spoil the moment. 

Eagle keeps staring, gaze flickering from Bucky’s eyes to his mouth and back. 

“So,” Bucky says finally, voice still rough. “I wanted to ask if you—”

Eagle jumps up before Bucky can finish, screen still in hand, looking at it intently before dropping it to the roof with a clunk. He grabs something out of his bag and vaults over the parapet to drop onto the fire escape landing below. 

Stunned, Bucky just sits there, before grabbing for the screen to see what set Eagle off. One shape is very still on the screen, in what looks like a closet or stairwell that’s away from normal traffic, blue pixels holding steady on the display. His stomach sinks, because it looks like Natasha. 

With a look at the equipment, he shoves it into the backpack in case Eagle doesn’t come back and heads down the fire escape too. 

He can barely make out the Eagle’s shape near the bottom, then Eagle drops to the ground and runs across the street. 

Bucky curses and speeds up, but it’s no use. Eagle’s already slipped into the shadows of the facility and disappeared. 

On the ground again, Bucky pauses to reassess. Eagle probably went in at the rear entry door, the one that hasn’t been used in all their time watching. It’s poorly lit and inconveniently located, making it the perfect choice for unauthorized entry. 

Shrinking back into the cover of shadows to wait, Bucky slips the backpack on more securely. It was an impulse to follow him, but maybe he should have left the gear and just gone home. Someone from Eagle’s team would have come back for it eventually. 

And now he waits in the dark— until he hears noise up above, somewhere on the roof of this two-story portion of the building. He looks for it, sees movement on the roof and then watches Eagle tip over the edge. 

Bucky’s already coming forward to stop him, but he’s nowhere near close enough. He can only watch helplessly as Eagle falls to the ground, landing on a few bags of garbage next to the overflowing dumpster with the tinny sound of breaking glass from whatever’s in the bags. The important parts— his head, his arms, his knees— are cushioned by the garbage even if he does land face-first. 

Falling to his knees beside Eagle’s motionless form, Bucky hesitates before reaching for him. 

“E, come on,” Bucky says, supporting his neck as he tries to turn him over. 

Eagle makes a weird noise, then grabs at Bucky’s arm to pull himself up.

“Yeah, maybe don’t,” Bucky says, but then he goes still when he hears noise up above, footsteps or some other movement. 

“We have to go,” Eagle chokes out, and Bucky fervently agrees. He slings Eagle’s arm over his shoulders and his own around Eagle’s waist, pulling him up out of the trash and onto his feet. 

They shuffle into the shadows and around the corner, Bucky supporting most of the Eagle’s weight. Once out of sight he can feel Eagle relax, but it’s more of a slump that has him concerned. He shifts his grip on Eagle’s side to better carry him, Eagle flinching away from the pressure. 

He makes to let Eagle go, lean him against the brick wall to better assess the damage, but Eagle grabs at his arm to stop him. 

“No, we have to keep moving,” Eagle says, looking back at the facility. 

“You’re barely standing,” Bucky protests but keeps holding on. “You fell off a roof.”

“I can’t stay here,” Eagle says, raspy. “If they come looking…”

“Fine, okay,” Bucky says. They keep moving forward until the alley ends with an iron fence. 

“What’s wrong,” Eagle says, head lolling towards Bucky’s shoulder. He’s putting more of his weight on Bucky, dragging his feet. It isn’t good.

“There’s a fence,” Bucky says, and adjusts Eagle's arm over his shoulder. “You got any ideas?”

“I can jump it—” 

“No, you’re not doing anything,” Bucky says with a snort. He moves closer to one of the buildings framing the alley, enough that he can let Eagle slump against the wall and rest. 

Bucky steps back to see if the fence has a gate, and in the light from the street realizes his hand’s covered in blood. He turns to glare at Eagle. “Did you get stabbed?” 

“All happened so fast,” Eagle grits out, leaning his head back against the brick. 

“Okay, that’s it, I’m calling a car,” Bucky says and ignores Eagle’s quiet protests to book a car on his phone. That done, he comes back to look at Eagle’s side. 

Even in the dark it looks bad enough to get them denied a ride, so he unzips his hoodie and gets Eagle into it to hide the worst of it. His hand’s already been against the wound, so he just uses the side of the hoodie to act as a bandage, then lifts Eagle’s own hand to apply pressure.

“Hold this,” he tells Eagle, then goes to look more carefully at the fence. They’re in luck, because there is a gate and it’s not locked. 

He pushes it open and comes back for the Eagle, stepping to the curb by the time the car pulls up. The driver says nothing about Eagle or his mask, so Bucky automatically adds in a higher tip. 

It feels like forever until they’re in Park Slope, even if it’s probably only ten minutes with the near-empty streets, Eagle slumped against Bucky's shoulder. 

He passes the driver cash and then tips on the app anyway, waving off the driver’s offer of help and gets Eagle into his building. 

The stairs are awful, Eagle passing out halfway up the first set. He’s dead weight, Bucky finally lifting him in a fireman’s carry to make the trip shorter. 

He ends up with blood all over his gray shirt and is glad when he’s unlocking the apartment door, that they don’t live any higher up and it’s too late for the neighbours to be out. He manages to carry Eagle to the couch and set him down before his knees give out. 

Stretching out his upper body, he goes for the nursing kit he keeps in the corner of his room and a towel before washing his hands and gloving up. Eagle’s pulse is steady, but so is the blood leaking from his side and the scrapes on his one gloveless hand. 

Rolling him up on one side and sliding the towel under him, Bucky peels the hoodie back to look at the knife wound on Eagle’s left side. His shirt gapes wide, the wound itself long but shallow. There’s a lot of blood but it looks like it just glanced off a rib. 

Breathing out a sigh of relief that it isn’t more serious, Bucky presses sterile gauze to staunch the bleeding and assesses the rest of him. There’s a minor cut on the other side of his torso, scruffs down his pant legs but nothing major to attend to, so Bucky just pulls Eagle’s belt loose to improve circulation and moves on to his head. 

There’s blood on his face, across the right side of his brow and under his eye. 

Bucky pushes the head covering up to inspect Eagle’s forehead. He can’t feel anything there so he tugs the mask down to find a cut across one cheekbone—

A familiar cheekbone, and even more familiar smart mouth. 

Bucky sinks back on his heels. It’s Steve— Eagle’s Steve, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he— but then the pieces slide into place: the missing tech, the big project Steve is working on, even the fucking allergies. 

Narrowing his eyes at Steve’s unconscious face, Bucky lets himself be angry for one white hot second before he puts it away. Now isn’t the time, and he resumes assessment instead. Nothing's broken and Steve's pupil response is normal. Beyond some bruises that Bucky can see already rising under the skin and the impending aches, Steve will survive. 

At least until Bucky gets through with him, he thinks, because Steve’s been lying to Bucky for weeks. He’s known it was Bucky all along, too, and Bucky— 

Stomach sinking, Bucky sits back again. He’d told the Eagle he was in love with his roommate, and Steve just let him do it. He almost lifts his hand to rub over his face. Only years of training keeping him from making contact. 

He’s fucked, but at least he has a job to do so he can focus. Reaching behind him for a squirt bottle full of saline solution, he flushes the knife wound and then cleans it. It doesn’t need sutures, not overly wide and in an area that won’t really pull or stretch with average living, not that he’s sure Steve pretending to be a superhero could be considered average.

“You’re lucky,” he tells Steve, drying it before applying a couple of butterfly closures to pull it together; it holds nicely enough. He cleans off the other cut on his side and then the scrapes, bandaging what needs it before stepping back to toss the gloves and his trash. 

In the kitchen, he washes his hands again before pouring himself a glass of water and downing it, still eyeing the vigilante on his couch. He’d almost lost him. In an instant, this would all be over and Bucky wouldn’t have known a thing. But now that he’s seen Eagle unmasked, he can’t help but see Steve. 

Moving back into the living room, he tugs Steve’s mask back into place. He needs time to process, and it’s easier to look at him this way. To see him as the Eagle, even though he knows it’s Steve underneath. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Eagle in full light, really, the variations in the shades of black and grey in his uniform that don’t quite match up. It’s more noticeable in their living room. 

Bucky goes back to the kitchen and makes himself toast while he waits for Steve to wake up. He hopes that here in their shared space, Steve will finally tell him the truth. It’s kind of funny that he was so proud of himself for getting over what he can’t have with Steve with someone else— who ends up being the one Bucky’s trying to get over. Guess he has a type. 

Steve wakes up with a jerk, one hand immediately going to his face to check that the mask is still there. 

“Easy,” Bucky says from the kitchen. 

Steve sits up slowly and slides his boots back to the floor, one hand over his side where he’d been stabbed. He looks directly over to Bucky, because he knows this apartment. It’s his apartment too. “What happened?”

“You got stabbed, so I brought you here to fix you up,” Bucky says. He sets his plate on the counter and fills up another glass of water. “Figured you wouldn't want to go to an actual hospital.”

“No, this is good, thank you,” Steve says. His voice is different like this, deeper, like he’s trying hard to sound like a different person. 

Guess it worked. Bucky sets the glass of water on the end table beside the couch, then steps back to give Steve a little room. Steve isn’t looking at him, too busy examining his bandaged hand and his other injured areas. 

Bucky must have misread those moments on the rooftop, where the Eagle looked back at him and they— it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“I don’t know when my roommate will be back,” Bucky says, watching Steve carefully for a reaction. “But you can stay for a bit. You should probably eat something, you lost some blood.”

“I’m okay,” Steve says, and reaches for the glass of water before stopping with a wince and bringing his hand back to his side. “I’ve been better.” 

“What happened in there?” Bucky asks.

“It was a false alarm. I got jumped,” Steve says simply, like it doesn’t have Bucky’s pulse jumping again at what could have happened. “But they didn’t see who I was, so I don't think the mission’s compromised.” 

“The mission,” Bucky echoes. 

Steve nods, then chances the water and pours it into his mouth through the fabric of his mask, dripping onto his shirt. He winces, setting the glass back on the table. His hand goes back to his side, and Bucky zeroes in on that, on an injury that could have been a lot worse. 

“I was worried,” Bucky says, daring for honesty. “I thought you were going to die.” 

“I didn’t die.” 

“If I wasn’t there, you might have,” Bucky says. “And I feel like—” 

He cuts himself off, because it’s not fair that even after this he’s still in love with this asshole. 

“What?” Steve asks. 

“I care about you,” Bucky says, taking a chance. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

“You do,” Steve disagrees, but gently. “You know me better than anyone.” 

“I do?” Bucky says, and silently dares Steve to come clean, to tell the truth. It’d be so easy, right here in their home. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, meeting Bucky's eyes for a long minute like he’s trying to tell him something, then he ruins it by getting up. “I have to go.” 

“Go?” Bucky echoes, and helplessly watches Steve slip back into character with each step he takes closer to their fire escape off the kitchen. He shouldn’t let him, not with being stabbed and blood loss, but Steve pries open the window to the fire escape with the same determination he’s shown with every other bad decision. 

Bucky does insist Eagle take a couple of granola bars and a bottle of his sweetest kombucha in hand for the glucose, which is awkward until Eagle shoves it all into his backpack for the climb down. 

“Thanks,” Eagle says as he steps out the window, “I owe you.”

“Forget about it,” Bucky mutters, but he still watches Eagle make his careful way down until he’s safe on the asphalt below. He can’t see him anymore but waits a minute longer, then climbs back into the apartment and closes the window. 

He sighs heavily, looking at the mess on the couch. He’s not mad at Steve, because he doesn’t get mad. He just lets it slide. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day he’s off again and at a loss of what to do. He’s not ready to see Eagle so the roof isn’t an option, even if it isn’t likely that Eagle will be climbing up there with a stab wound. But it also means the apartment’s out since Steve’s probably going to recover at home and Bucky can't pretend things are normal yet. 

He ends up seeing if any of the Howlies are off and goes to an afternoon movie with Gabe like they’re back in college. It’s some action film, a sequel to a movie Bucky hasn’t seen, so he doesn’t get much out of the setup. Most of it’s violent, with a sequence of shoddy field medicine that has both him and Gabe wincing at a process that’s sure to cause infection. 

After it’s over Gabe begs off from grabbing dinner to study for an online course he’s taking, so Bucky meets up with Monty for a late dinner after his shift. It keeps him from dwelling on Steve and the secrets he’s been keeping, but he must not hide his preoccupation as well as he thinks because Monty asks him what’s going on.

“Things are weird with Steve,” Bucky says. As vague as that is, it encompasses all of the crap going on right now that he hasn’t figured out yet. 

Monty nods understandingly, because this isn’t the first time he’s heard about the Bucky and Steve saga. Bucky’s been in trouble for a while. 

“I accidentally told him how I felt,” Bucky says. The rest of it’s too complicated to get into over a dinner. “And he just hasn’t said anything.”

“Does that make it better or worse?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bucky says honestly, because he doesn’t. 

“Since I know you, I’m going to tell you to talk to him before you decide which it is,” Monty says. “No getting stuck in your own head and hoping it just goes away.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says, but Monty’s right. He needs to talk to Steve. 

Maybe he won’t be ready to have Steve lie to him again, but he still has to give him a chance to tell the truth. 

Dinner ends on a melancholy note, Bucky taking care of the bill in an attempt to apologize for being preoccupied all night. Monty doesn’t protest, instead offering his place if Bucky needs an escape route. 

Bucky says thanks but heads home, figuring it’s late enough that Steve has to be sleeping. 

Or, as he finds out when he gets in, that Steve never came home at all. 

Bucky’s suddenly exhausted, barely able to make it to the couch before he collapses into it with enough force to knock something loose. 

Heaving a sigh, he kneels on the hardwood to see if it’s a spring signalling the couch’s end is nigh. It’s a small metal buckle, the right size for a bag strap. He slides it closer and picks it up, turning it over for any identifying marks to figure out what it’s from. There’s a symbol pressed into one side—really, a logo: Stark Industries. 

Bucky closes his hand around the buckle, recognizing it as a piece come loose from Eagle’s uniform. If it’s been there the entire time, so has the answer. 

Eagle had never said he didn’t work for Stark, plus it makes sense. All those prototypes unfiled thanks to Stark’s paranoia about having his ideas stolen. His competitors do have a track record of releasing similar but sloppier versions a couple cycles later, but at the moment Bucky isn’t feeling generous. 

He shoves the buckle into his pocket to bring up with Steve later, hopefully as himself. Steve’s better at parkour than Bucky is, so if he were to confront Eagle with his true identity on the roof Bucky would have no hope of catching up. 

Steve’s closed door tells him he might already be too late, but Bucky’s still going to try. 

*

He sleeps right through his alarm the next afternoon, leaving just enough time to grab yesterday’s clothes before jogging to catch the train. He gets to work a bit sweaty, the hair at the back of his neck curling into knots as he pulls it back before doing a first check in with his patients. 

The first half of his shift is quiet, allowing him to be preoccupied with where things are with Steve. He’s more hurt than mad, the sting of being lied to coupled with the realization that Steve isn’t who he thought he was. It should have been better, to know that Steve isn’t actually with someone else, but he still isn’t choosing Bucky except from behind a mask. 

It doesn’t affect his work, but Clint still pulls him aside in one of the empty ward rooms on the third floor to talk. He shares an edited version of what happened, mostly that this guy he’d been talking to turned out to be Steve. 

“So he piña colada-ed you,” Clint says, folding his arms over his chest and making himself at home against the footboard of one of the empty beds.

“What?” Bucky turns away from looking at his scruffy reflection in the window. 

“The piña colada song, you know.” Clint starts humming, a bit off key but the melody’s recognizable enough. “If you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain…” 

“I guess it’s not  _ unlike _ that,” Bucky allows, even if he didn’t go out looking for someone new that first night on the roof. “But he knew the whole time.” 

“What if he thought you knew too, and it was just a fun thing you were doing? Playing pretend?” 

“Well,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t have an answer for that. Things changed when he found out who Eagle was. It should make it simpler, falling for the same guy twice, but he’s not sure it did. 

“I’m going to suggest something controversial,” Clint says. “You should talk to him before you decide if you’re mad. Hurt, sure, but mad? Gotta see where his head was at first.”

“When did you become reasonable,” Bucky says to himself, then frowns when he looks out at the windows again, because there’s movement outside that shouldn’t be there, not at three stories up— 

Realizing too late it’s coming straight at them, he has just enough time to grab Clint’s arm and turn them away from the window before it shatters when a body bursts in. 

Bucky lowers his arm from protecting his face, turning back to the window to see a person in a red-and-gold metal suit standing in the ward room and someone else with a whole set of metal wings coming in close behind. 

“What the fuck,” Clint says from behind him.

“This is a hospital,” the one with wings says, taking a few steps back. He’s wearing a face covering like Steve’s and with goggles, metal wings strapped on over an all-black outfit that’s fitted and armoured. It’s a step up from what Eagle wore, more tactical, and better suited for sneaking around on rooftops.

“It’s where the signal pinged from,” the iron man says, turning to the bird like Bucky and Clint aren’t a concern.

Which they aren’t, not compared to two guys in armoured suits, but Bucky’s still annoyed.

“Do a sweep,” the bird says, and they both move to push past the nurses to head into the hospital proper. 

“Yeah, no,” Bucky says and steps back to block them. 

“No?” The iron man asks, lifting his metal hands like they’re going to shoot lasers or whatever. 

“No,” Bucky says, standing his ground. “The actual sick people here don’t want a visit from Iron Man and the Bird.”

“I’m the Falcon,” says the bird, then gestures at the other guy. “He’s Phoenix.” 

“Iron Man,” the metal one says and flips up the front of his helmet to reveal Tony Stark’s face. “That’s good.”

This must be the other part of Eagle's bird group. Falcon, Phoenix and—

“Well this looks like a problem,” says a voice from behind him, and there’s Blackbird. She’s shorter than Bucky, wearing a fitted black outfit zipped up to her chin, overlaid with armour pieces that match Falcon’s. 

“Where were you?” Falcon says, turning to give Blackbird a look. 

“Elevator,” Blackbird says, pointing a thumb at the hallway behind. “But I guess you thought the window was faster?”

“He’s missing,” Falcon says, like that explains it.

“Who’s missing,” Bucky says, because if these three are here, then— 

“Eagle, he’s here?” Stark fills in the blank. “Is he hurt?” 

“Well, he got stabbed a little,” Bucky says. “But—”

“This isn’t a joke,” Falcon says. 

“But he’s not here,” Bucky finishes. He hesitates, unsure of how much to share. “I patched him up, and he went back to your nest or whatever. I haven’t seen him for a few days.”

“His tracker’s pinging this location,” Stark says. “Did he give you something?” 

“No,” Bucky says, but his mind goes straight to the buckle in his locker downstairs. “Wait, does it look like a buckle?” 

“What do you morons not understand about keeping the tracker on you at all times?” Stark asks, almost dad-like, which does not fit Bucky’s understanding of Stark from Steve’s stories and the news.

“I was undercover,” Blackbird says with a shrug. “Mine got in the way.” 

Bucky looks over and is surprised when Blackbird winks at him. He frowns back, confused, but Blackbird's already returning their attention to Stark. 

“I  _ bet _ it got in the way,” Falcon mutters, and there’s something about the way he says it, the familiarity he has with Blackbird, and the way nobody here’s assumed that Bucky was in on Eagle’s disappearance— 

Bucky looks again, at Falcon’s height and the breadth of his shoulders revealed by the tight suit, then at the way Blackbird carries herself, and the pieces fall into place. He recognizes them both. 

In retrospect, it would have been more surprising if Natasha and Sam weren’t up to their eyeballs in this with Steve. 

Bucky opens his mouth to ask, but then closes it again. Right now, he’s one up on them. He knows who they are and they know who he is, but they don’t  _ know _ that he knows. He’s not sure it’s useful, but he’s not about to give up the advantage. 

“If he’s not here, we should keep looking,” Falcon says. 

“I can help find him,” Bucky blurts out before they can leave. 

They all look at him, even Clint, forcing him to shift his weight backwards and lean away. 

“Look,” he says, “I’ve been with him for weeks, I probably know that building as well as he does.” 

“He’s not there,” Blackbird says. “We looked.”

“Yeah, but I can help review footage and look for patterns,” Bucky says. “Like the thing with the van.” 

“The van?” Stark asks Bucky before turning his attention to his team. 

“The bread van thing,” Falcon says to Stark, then eyes Bucky speculatively. “You think they did the same thing again?”

“It’s possible,” Bucky says. It’s probably more likely that Steve rushed into something without thinking, and who recognizes that song and dance better than Bucky. He has a few theories on what might’ve happened to his friend, and only one has Steve running away to avoid Bucky’s feelings.

“Yeah, all right Florence,” Falcon says. It’s hard to see behind the goggles, but he’s definitely rolling his eyes. “You can help.”

“I’m off at six,” Bucky says. He might be fixated on what happened to Steve for the next five hours, but he’s not about to get an abandonment charge. 

“Okay, then you can bring breakfast,” Stark says, taking two steps to the broken window and flying away. 

“Is he serious?” Bucky asks, but Falcon just shrugs. 

“I wouldn’t not do it,” Blackbird says. 

“See you out front at six?” Falcon asks. With one foot on the windowsill, he nods his head at Bucky. 

“Sure,” Bucky says slowly, watching Falcon jump out the window and disappear into the dark. 

Bucky stares after him for a second before turning to Clint and Blackbird, only to see that she’s gone. 

“So, what, you couldn’t tell me that you were hanging out with superheroes now?” Clint says, a bit disgruntled. 

“It’s…complicated,” Bucky says, and dodges the swing Clint aims at his head. 

*

At six, Bucky steps out of the hospital to find Falcon waiting for him in a nondescript dark sedan. It could be one of the cars that picked Steve up every morning except for the metal backpack on the rear seat. 

“Is that your jet pack?” Bucky asks, turning to look at it as he belts himself in. 

“It’s not—no,” Falcon says. He pulls out onto the street and they head west to Midtown. It’s a quiet drive, Falcon not taking the opportunity Sam would have to tease Bucky about the smell of his fruity-smelling shampoo filling the car’s interior. But maybe he’s afraid of having Bucky catch on and discover who he is. 

They turn into a parking garage beneath the Stark Industries building, following the ramps down to the bottom level. From there, he follows Falcon into an elevator and further down into what Bucky can only think of as the Batcave. There’s a training room and an infirmary behind frosted glass walls, then the corridor opens up into a larger room with a massive monitor display taking up one entire wall. 

Blackbird turns away from the monitors when they come in, except this time she’s Natasha, mask abandoned on the desk beside her. 

“Blackbird—” Falcon says urgently, gesturing at his face. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and turns back to the computer. “You realize he made us both back in the hospital?” 

“Really,” Falcon says, pulling the goggles and mask off. “You couldn’t have told me earlier so I didn’t have to wear that uncomfortable thing on the drive here?”

“But you looked cool,” Natasha says brightly, then rolls a second chair towards Bucky with her foot.

Bucky settles in gingerly, unsure of which screen to look at. Each is playing back footage that focuses on the facility, including the last time they saw Eagle, but from different angles. 

“How much do you know,” Natasha asks, scrolling through the footage. She pulls one foot up onto her chair and uses her knee as a chin rest.

“Stolen tech—” Bucky starts, but stops when Natasha waves a hand at him. He rolls his eyes and jumps ahead to the end. “I know it’s Steve.” 

“Good,” Natasha says and pulls up a few different perspectives on the screens. “This is the last time we saw him.” 

Eagle’s crossing the street, goes out of sight by the building, and then he just doesn’t appear on the other side on any of the cameras. The vehicles driving down the street enter and exit the shots normally, so it’s weird that just Eagle vanishes into thin air. 

Bucky watches the screen where Eagle should be, and scrolls the footage back to three days ago. 

“What is this,” Natasha says, rolling closer to see what Bucky’s looking at. 

“This is the night he got stabbed,” Bucky says, moving to where Eagle steps into the shadows before reappearing on the other side of the street. Bucky doesn’t show up at all on the more traditional way across the street. “You’ve got a blind spot.” 

“No,” Natasha says in disbelief, refreshing the available angles but nothing shows that particular stretch of street. 

Bucky points at himself on screen when he shows up a few seconds behind Eagle. “I was there, and I know I walked straight there. So where was I?” 

“Shit,” Natasha says. She jumps the frames back to the night Eagle disappeared. “So if he’s not on camera 8 or 6, he must disappear somewhere in those thirty feet.” 

“That still doesn’t help us figure out where he went, just where he didn’t go,” Sam says over their shoulders. 

“But that van,” Bucky says. It drives slowly into frame and then away. “The timing’s right.”

“We can track it using traffic cams,” Natasha says, running a script that highlights the van’s passage from Williamsburg to somewhere up in Queens. It spikes and then retraces its path back to Brooklyn. “That looks promising.” 

“Did we look there?” Sam asks.

“Not yet,” Natasha says. She pulls up the block layout, then a blueprint for a warehouse. “This is a property of interest. Unless you already know about that,” she finishes with a look at Bucky.

“Eh,” Bucky says noncommittally. 

“That’s a lead, let’s go check it out,” Sam says, rolling Bucky’s his chair back from the desk. 

“What?” Bucky asks, but he gets up all the same. 

“We gotta get you a suit,” Sam says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder and leading the way further into the Batcave.

In the suit, Bucky understands what pulled Steve out every night to play superhero. He feels cooler in it, more mysterious, and that’s even before he slides the mask on. It’s one of the updated versions, a motorcycle suit with better protection. 

He makes a face at his reflection when he passes the glass panels of their infirmary on the way out, trying to pull his hair back and keep up with Natasha. 

“You get used to it,” she tells him, right before they step out of the elevator. She stops at a motorcycle, but he goes on to the van branded with a tech company’s logo. 

“Why am I here,” Bucky asks Sam when he gets in. 

“You’re just lucky I’m not making you sit in the back,” Sam says. “First mission and all.” 

“That part,” Bucky says, belting himself in and looking forward. “Why am I on this mission?” 

“When we find Steve, he might need your help,” Sam says. “Not every day we get a trained medic on the team.” 

“As long as you know I’m not doing this for you,” Bucky says. “This is for him.” 

“Obviously,” Sam says. He reaches up to put his hand on the gearshift. “I wondered when you’d catch on.”

“To what,” Bucky says.

“Steve,” Sam says and drives out of the garage. “He wanted to tell you, but I expected you to figure it out first.”

“It was dark,” Bucky says. “And I didn’t exactly expect it.”

Sam gives him a look, then gestures at his own mask. “You want to get a little secret identity revenge, I won’t say anything.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says and leans back in his seat to catch a power nap on the way over.

They’re parked when he wakes up, a street over from the facility and their target. Sam has the floor plan pulled up on a tablet and hands it to Bucky when he sees he’s awake. 

“I’m going in from the top,” Sam says, flipping to a different vantage point on the tablet Bucky’s holding. He looks at him, hesitates. “You don’t need to come, if you want to stay here. You can assess Steve when I bring him back.” 

Bucky shakes his head, appreciating the out all the same. He feels more alert after sleeping, and he wants to help. 

Sam looks at him steadily. “If you’re sure, then make sure you stick with me.” 

Before getting out of the van and approaching the building, they put on their masks and goggles. The building itself is four or five stories high, with one taller tower that sits on a wider base. A factory or warehouse that’s seen more profitable days, going by the boarded-up windows. 

They use the fire escape to climb to the roof so Sam can break open the roof access door and they head inside. 

The top floor is a bunch of offices, most of the doors shut but not locked. They investigate each room they pass quietly, Sam keeping track of their progress as they work their way across the floor. 

The next floor has more offices and is just as abandoned as the top level. Some of the windows aren’t boarded, but these look into the interior and the open space of the building below. 

There’s no sign of Steve on this level either. 

Sam had seemed so confident that Steve would be here, but Bucky can’t share the conviction. He’s too afraid that they won’t find him here— or worse, they do and he’s not okay— 

Bucky jumps when Sam puts a hand to his chest, slowing him down before they step out of the stairwell on the next floor. 

“Voices,” Sam mouths, and they wait in the dark of the stairs until it’s clear. 

This floor is well-lit, the mezzanine open to a space that used to be a factory, mostly empty beyond some scattered catwalks around the ghosts of equipment past. Sam’s more cautious now, slowly opening the doors to the rooms on the far side. 

“Here,” Sam says after three tries, and there’s Steve. Unconscious, unmasked, and tied to a chair, but okay. 

Steve’s head rests against his chest in what has to be a painful pose even if his hands weren’t tied up behind him. 

Sam goes to untie him while Bucky kneels beside the chair to check Steve’s vitals, pushing the hair out of Steve’s face in a move that’s probably too tender for a rescue mission. 

Steve’s face is badly bruised, one eye swollen, but his pupils are the same size and fairly responsive so a brain injury isn’t an immediate concern. 

Stirring, Steve squints at Bucky’s masked face before pulling back. 

“Easy,” Bucky says, steadying Steve with both hands on his face. His gloves are fingerless, the pads of his fingers picking up the warmth of Steve’s skin. It’s a good sign. “You got jumped pretty bad.”

Steve looks at him as best he can with just one good eye, tilting his head too far back to compensate. Bucky follows the motion, close enough that he can see the creases in the swelling on Steve’s cheek. 

“What’s going on,” Steve mumbles and lets the weight of his head rest in Bucky’s hands. 

“I, uh,” Bucky says, and glances down at Sam before answering. “I’m Robin and I’m here to rescue you.” 

“We are,” Sam gripes from behind as he loosens Steve’s hands.

“Falcon,” Steve says, relieved, slumping forward when he’s freed.

Bucky catches Steve’s sudden weight, shifting backwards to manage it.

“Thanks,” Steve says, into the side of Bucky’s neck. “Wait, Robin?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. There's no flicker of recognition with the name. 

“Stark has all kinds of us tucked around the city, huh,” Steve says. “You’re one of the good ones, right?”

“We should go,” Sam cuts in, sliding one arm under Steve’s to take some of the weight so Bucky can pick up the other side. They straighten slowly, Steve grunting as he adjusts. 

“Falcon,” Steve says, relieved. “It’s Beck. It’s his stupid shit that’s getting people into trouble.”

“Beck,” Sam repeats like it’s a revelation. “Is he still here?”

“Somewhere,” Steve says, raising one shoulder like he’s going to point before thinking better of moving his support system. “He wasn’t happy to see me.”

“That’s okay,” Sam says, and they manage to get through the door without too much jostling. Steve’s starting to hold up his own weight but it’s still slow going. 

In the hall, they can hear louder voices coming up from the lower level. 

Sam slows and makes a shushing motion as they stop, just a few feet from the stairs to safety. 

“You’re all idiots,” someone says loudly. From the way it echoes, maybe from the level down below. “You figure kidnapping a guy—commiting a felony—made sense.”

“He’d broken in twice—”

“I don’t care!” The voice says, even louder. “We should have just moved my projects back here and been done with Brooklyn.”

Steve looks at Sam at that, saying Beck quietly. 

Sam nods, and adjusts his grip to help Steve start moving again.

“Up to this point, we weren’t doing anything wrong. We had nothing to hide.” 

“So we get rid of him,” one of the others says. “Problem solved.” 

“Then it’s murder, and that’s worse,” Beck says, voice rising in pitch. “You get how that’s worse, right?” 

Bucky’s hand tightens around Steve’s wrist, wishing they could move faster. None of what he’s hearing sounds good. 

“Why can’t we just ask Stane—”

“That won’t make Stark go away,” Beck says, then there’s a loud crash of something being thrown. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

The voices are getting closer, so Sam abandons the plan for the stairwell and moves them to a different exit, a dirty-looking set of metal stairs that lead up and away from the mezzanine. 

“All right,” Sam says, taking more of Steve’s weight to manage the narrow steps. It’s slow going. 

Bucky looks at the stairwell then at Sam who’s gesturing for him to follow them up. They’re maybe a few seconds away from being discovered. 

Shaking his head, he backs away from the stairs and ignores Sam’s frantic commands to stay with them. 

“I’ll throw them off,” he whispers and waits until the stairwell door opens and the first guy spots him. Then he takes off, leading away from Sam and Steve and hoping they come after him. 

He’s successful, all three of them on his heels— but then he realizes he doesn’t know where to go. 

There’s a ramp leading down up ahead so he takes it down, then turns the corner to come face to face with someone on their phone, leaning against the railing of this second tier of the mezzanine. 

Bucky stops short, eyeing the distance between the guy and the next set of stairs. There’s no way he’ll make it through, even if that stairs leads to freedom. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” they say, slipping the phone into their jacket pocket and giving Bucky a full onceover. “Stark made himself superheroes?”

“Beck?” Bucky says, taking a guess. 

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly annoyed, either at the recognition or the interruption. “So, superhero. You’re here to stop me?” 

“Not really,” Bucky says and drops the aggressive set to his shoulders for something softer, more understanding. It’s not unlike being on shift, being the most understanding and empathetic version of himself in a way that approaches invisibility. “I mean, it’s not exactly your fault.” 

“Yeah—wait, what?” Beck says, confused. 

“I heard it,” Bucky reasons, trying to appeal to the self-preservation instincts just simmering under Beck’s calm exterior. “You shouldn’t have to deal with incompetence like that. You’re just trying to get your tech back, right? Simple.”

“What, what is this?” Beck takes a step back, pulling his phone back out and using it to point at Bucky. It’s strangely hostile, for all that Beck otherwise seems showy but harmless. 

“Just agreeing with you,” Bucky says. He keeps his hands up to show they’re empty, appealing to baser instincts. “Kind of sucks that you’re stuck on cleanup.” 

“Are you trying to get a job offer out of this, take the problem off my hands?” Beck asks. 

“Not at all,” Bucky says easily. “What you do is up to you. But I saw the guy tied up back there, and that’s not how this was supposed to go. Right?”

Beck stares at him, long enough that Bucky thinks that he’s not going to buy the act and he’s going to call the guys with guns back over. Then something flickers in his eyes and he drops his own shoulders into a tired stoop. 

“I got fired, you know that?” Beck says. “They took over my work, then they fired me. Like I meant nothing.” 

“That’s awful,” Bucky says, prompting Beck to keep going. He’s careful to put the railing at his back, eyes on both where he came from and where he can go. The catwalk drops away to Beck’s right, probably the stairs down to the main level. 

“So then Stane—Tony Stark fired him too, so I should thank him for bringing the two of us together—Stane tells me I should take it back.” 

“Of course he did, he cares about you. And your stuff, because it’s yours.” Bucky says soothingly, even though he has no idea who Stane is. 

“Did he send you?” Beck asks, moving closer even as Bucky circles him to get to the stairs but his body language stays loose.

“Just making sure everything’s all right,” Bucky says on a gamble. It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it as soon as it comes out.

Beck pulls back, straightening to his full height and making Bucky freeze where he is. It’s not that Beck’s taller, it’s more what he represents. 

“I’m doing this my way,” Beck says darkly. 

Bucky takes a few steps away from him, feeling the edge of the walkway beneath one boot. 

“You can tell Stane to go to hell, him  _ and _ his upgrades,” Beck says. 

“Well,” Bucky hedges, and takes a step back. 

It’s one step too far. The edge of the stair curls under the ball of his foot and gently tilts him backward, making him scramble for balance. He catches his weight on the railing on the way down, enough to slow his descent but not stop it entirely, so he sort of slides down the rest of the stairs to collapse on the landing.

It’s just a few noisy seconds, but enough to attract the attention of the goons on the level above. Their shouts draw more eyes, groups forming both above and below. 

Bucky lets go of the railing and runs down the next flight before it gets more crowded. Up above, Beck’s telling his guys to grab him, and they’re swarming towards the catwalk. 

He takes off, heading to a door that hopefully leads away. The hallway leads to an ops room filled with monitors, but no people. Locking the door behind himself, Bucky pulls out the communicator Sam gave him to call for help. From the monitors, he can see most of the building’s interior, including where Natasha’s entering off the loading dock. 

His device has no signal, no way to call for help or tell Natasha what she’s walking into. And if he can see her on camera, so could anyone else with access to these feeds. 

He unzips his jacket to pull out the scrambler device he’d borrowed from the hospital. Before he’d left that morning, he’d slipped down to lost and found and grabbed it just in case. Now, he presses the corners to activate it and all the computers in the room start to hum. Just before the cameras go out Natasha flashes a look at the cameras and directly at him, but he sets the device behind the biggest tower to keep the block going. 

The device takes out his communicator and apparently things outside the room too. Voices out there complain that something went, so it’s as good a time as any for him to try and leave. 

Propping the door open cautiously, Bucky doesn’t see opposition and steps out, keeping the wall at his back. He didn’t get enough of a look at the facility before killing the cameras, but he’ll just get lost trying to find the loading dock where Natasha came in. Going back up makes the most sense. 

He’s about to run for the stairs when someone grabs him and pulls him back into the hallway. 

It’s Natasha, wearing a hardshell cowl that leaves the lower part of her face exposed. “What did you do,” she asks. 

“Distraction,” Bucky says, breathing carefully with her arm across his chest. He knows it’s her, but part of him is still wary. 

“No, the computers,” Natasha says. “What’d you do.” 

“I used the scrambler. We found it at the hospital,” Bucky says. “Figured this was a good time to use it.” 

“Well, it has them jumping,” Natasha says. She looks around the corner, then looks back at him. “They’re grouping together to get their orders now, instead of over comms. They’ll be moving to cover all the exits.”

“So what’s our move?” Bucky says, pushing away from the wall to stand beside her.

“Aw, baby’s first spy mission,” Natasha says, patting his side. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you worked in engineering,” Bucky says. 

“I didn’t always work for Stark,” she says with a smirk, then gets serious. Pointing up at the mezzanine and the floors after, she turns to him to lay out the plan. “So we’re going to head up to the extraction point. Falcon’s going to meet us there.” 

“What about Stark,” Bucky says. “Shouldn’t this be his op?”

“Had to do something first,” she says and then gestures for him to follow her out of the hallway. They stick to the shadows, going the long way around to reach the base of the stairs with just one open space to cross left.

There’s a crash from above, making them both look up. Shattering glass or something getting knocked over, maybe nothing, but it pins them in place. 

“Should we—” Bucky starts, but Natasha waves at him to be quiet. 

Then voices from above, arguing. One’s too low to make out, but Bucky recognizes the other as Beck’s. 

So does Natasha, because she pulls a face. “Beck? He’s the one behind this?”

“And someone named Stane,” Bucky says, still unsure who that is or their involvement. 

Natasha swears, mouth twisting into something annoyed and impressed at the same time. “That asshole lied to my face— and he was good at it!”

“He said he just wanted his stuff back,” Bucky says, softly defensive. 

Natasha snorts. “It’s not his stuff. He had some interesting ideas, but we spent hours making them work. They’re not his any more than they’re mine or Steve’s.”

She looks up speculatively, then over at the stairs. Probably wondering if she can trust Bucky to find his own way out of here to take some revenge of her own. Bucky can imagine how Beck might’ve talked to people he worked with, even if he wasn’t halfway to crazy back then. 

“It’s no wonder there were all those accidents,” Natasha says. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Bucky holds his hands up in protest. “I’m just going by what he said—”

“You had a conversation?”

“Distraction,” Bucky says and points at himself. 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you and Steve are perfect for each other.”

“What?” Bucky says, but Natasha’s towing him along behind her to get in position. 

“Get ready,” Natasha says and points up. “Whenever they draw attention from the guys down here, we’ll make a run for it.”

They don’t have to wait long, the group turning as one with a call from Beck to take the stairs up to that level. 

“What if they, you know, overwatch,” Bucky says, gesturing upwards to the floors he and Sam cleared. 

Natasha just looks at him.

“Call of Duty,” Bucky says sheepishly. 

“Figured,” Natasha says. “And don’t worry, Falcon’s looking after us.” 

“Falcon—” Bucky starts but Natasha pulls him along with her, running for the stairs. The closer they go up, the clearer Beck and whichever member of the flock elected to engage him get. They stop just short of the next level, braced on the stairs for a clear moment. 

“My life’s work,” Beck is saying, frantically. He’s backed into a corner, against the railing of the mezzanine. “You tried to destroy them.”

Stark’s the one facing off with him, floating a few feet above the concrete flooring. “They were unstable. Your ideas get about halfway there, then pff. Start murdering people.”

Something feels off about this, and it isn’t just learning that Tony Stark is the kind of genius that can make a metal suit float. Bucky frowns, momentarily distracted from Natasha’s fingers grasping his suit’s rubberized sleeve.

“They don’t—” Beck denies loudly, vehemently, but his face is oddly serene. 

“And you? You're unstable,” Stark says viciously, like he’s enjoying this. 

Bucky looks over to Natasha. Her other hand is braced on the metal grating of the last step, like she’s about to launch them both across the mezzanine to safety. Adjusting his weight beside her, he makes himself feel ready to follow. 

“But you never even saw the best part,” Beck says, voice going hollow halfway through, like he’s moving away. Beck’s still there when Bucky turns back, though a flash of movement draws his attention away to the windows near the roof line. Overwatch, he thinks, but it’s Sam dressed as Falcon, watching the action with Steve.

Stark snorts. “What, another prototype that doesn’t really work?” 

“No,” Beck says—and the place goes dark, Beck’s voice echoing across the building. “Stane didn’t think too much of it either. But holography, it’s come a long way.”

“Go go go,” Natasha says, tugging at Bucky’s sleeve and they go, running across the open space to the steps that lead up to the catwalk above the mezzanine. They’re on the catwalk by the time the lights flash back on, closer to the exit. 

The mezzanine’s crawling with backup now, a combination of the armed guards from the lower level and robots, because why not. Beck’s gone, or else wasn’t ever there, and Stark’s turned his attention to the swarm coming his way. 

Moving upwards under the cover of the fight, they stay low to avoid drawing notice. They’re almost to the final stretch of stairs that lead out of here when Beck reappears in their exit route, floating thanks to whatever tech he’s strapped on with arms full of weaponry. 

“Look at what I can do,” Beck commands, blasting Stark’s suit in the back of the head and sending him spinning into a wall.

That starts the fight in earnest.

Stark— Iron Man— retaliates to the shot, blasts of light coming from his palms and hitting Beck to no effect. 

“He couldn’t have given everybody those?” Bucky grumbles as he and Natasha wait for Beck to move position so they get an opening. 

“Or the wings,” Natasha says. She’s watching the fight eagerly.

“Honestly, he names you after birds but you don’t get any perks.” 

“Us,” Natasha points out with a squeeze to his knee. “Robin.” 

“Uh,” Bucky says, and then they have to retreat to get out of the line of fire. 

Beck doesn’t seem to notice them at all, too focused on getting the better of Stark. Errant blasts have started taking apart the building around them, equipment coming loose and crashing to the concrete on the levels below. 

“Should we go back?” Bucky asks, looking at the path they were going to take and the way the blasts have compromised the integrity of the catwalk. 

“We—” Natasha starts, but sudden noise draws her attention away, pulling Bucky’s eyes up just in time to see a masked Eagle— Steve— stumble to the edge of the roof, tip over and fall. 

He darts to catch him, break his fall, anything—

Then the hovering projector responsible for the illusion shatters, caught with Natasha’s bullet, and Steve isn’t even there. 

Bucky slows too close to the edge of the broken catwalk, wobbles, and catches himself just in time to see a piece of steel coming straight at him and— 

Well. It isn’t great. 

A white flash of pain blinds him for a second, pins him as surely as the beam on his arm. 

Bucky regains awareness in pieces. Stark and Beck are still aiming at each other far above his head. Must have fallen through the catwalk to land down on the mezzanine below. 

Just can’t seem to get out of here, he notes absently, and he’s definitely in shock. He tries to get up but can’t seem to get his shoulders up off the ground. 

“Hey, we’re going to get you out of here,” he hears. A face swims into focus. Sam, still wearing his mask. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, then feeling floods back all of a sudden and he really, really isn’t. The rest passes in a fog, crystal clear moments in a haze of pain. Natasha kneeling beside him. Iron Man and Falcon lifting the beam. Beck, unconscious. Bucky clutching his arm to his chest, wrapped in someone’s wet shirt. Being told not to look. 

He doesn’t, but then he tries to move his fingers and passes out. 

It’s long enough to wake up in the van, leaning against Steve’s shoulder. Steve has his head tipped back against the side of the van, face bloody. 

He looks down at Bucky, and Bucky just presses his forehead into Steve’s arm and squeezes his eyes shut. He tries not to think about what’s going to happen next. 


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up in the infirmary, tucked into a pretty luxurious hospital suite. 

One of the nurses tells him his phone is plugged in beside him and that they’ve made arrangements to keep his identity a secret. He’s not sure what that means, and he falls asleep easily without figuring it out. 

The second time he wakes up, he feels more lucid, drinking some water to brace himself before he looks at what’s left of his left arm. 

Crush injury is traumatic, and they probably did their best to leave him with as much residual limb as possible, ending a few inches above his wrist. It doesn’t change the fact that life as he knew it is over. 

An accident, but he wouldn’t have changed going to help Steve. He’d give up a lot more than an arm for him. 

After struggling with his phone one-handed, he calls his work and tells them he needs indefinite emergency leave. 

“I had an accident,” Bucky says. 

They ask how long he’ll be on leave for, and he doesn’t know what to say, mumbling that he’ll let them know and ends the call. 

Dropping the phone into his lap, Bucky pushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes and frowns when he touches his face. It’s cool to the touch, enough that he checks the circulation in his hand. 

Then he has company, Steve poking his head around the privacy curtain. 

“Robin?” He says with a question mark, looking at Bucky once and then away and anywhere but. Steve has a pretty serious black eye, scrapes down the other side of his face held together by a series of butterfly bandages and a cut across his chin. He still looks unfairly good. 

“Couldn’t resist the reference,” Bucky says, then repeats it meaningfully. “Robin.” 

Steve nods. He doesn’t say anything about how Bucky got here, just looks at the equipment lined up against the other side of Bucky’s room. “So you’re on another one of Tony’s teams?”

“Was,” Bucky says, however brief it was. “Did they end up catching him? Beck.” 

“Yeah, he’s in holding. Apparently they’re gearing up to go after Stane now.”

Bucky has no idea who that is. 

“Tony’s old mentor,” Steve clarifies, clearly understanding Bucky’s blank look. “He set Beck up with the idea, but he wanted him to take Tony’s stuff—not his own. He planned to weaponize and sell it on the black market.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says. 

They go quiet, Bucky waiting for Steve to look at him and Steve concentrating on the blanket covering Bucky’s toes. It’s a good blanket, still soft despite the sanitizing process. 

Steve clears his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably. 

It’s not a great moment for Bucky either. Steve’s clearly awkward with him and his injury, unable to meet his eyes or look at what’s left of his arm. Bucky opens his mouth to change the subject when Steve stirs again and keeps talking. 

“Are you going to be involved in that, ah—” Steve trails off, flushing red when he realizes there’s no way Bucky can be, not with his arm like this. He finally looks at the bandage on Bucky’s left arm, how it suddenly tapers off into nothing. 

“Yeah, this is new,” Bucky says, and raises his arm from the sling they’re using to keep it elevated. It’s a transradial amputation, with more residual forearm than he’d expected, but that could just be the way it’s wrapped. It’s disconcerting not to know this part of his body anymore.

Steve clears his throat, dragging his eyes back to Bucky’s face. He’s still red, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, I just stopped in to say I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“Well, you know.” Steve carefully doesn’t look at Bucky’s injury now, but it’s clear he’s talking about it. 

“Not saying it doesn’t make it go away,” Bucky says. He doesn’t blame Steve at all, but he also isn’t ready for the non-looks and avoidance disability brings out in people. He sets his arm back into the sling.

“I just feel responsible, since it was my rescue that did this to you.” Steve raises one hand to the back of his neck, a move Bucky recognizes. 

“Losing my hand,” Bucky says, because the first thing he knows about healthy acceptance is acknowledging it.

“Right, that.” Steve’s hand doesn’t come down. 

“I volunteered,” Bucky says. “Plus, it wasn’t entirely altruistic.”

“What?”

“It was you,” Bucky says. “We were rescuing  _ you.” _

Steve is silent, an unreadable expression on his normally open face. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. He has nothing to lose. “I’m in love with you. Of course I had to try and save you.”

“You’re in love with me,” Steve repeats weakly. “No, you think you’re—”

“I have been for a long time,” Bucky says, going all in. “I don’t want this to ruin what we have, but I have to say something. Because I’m in love with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says after a long pause. “I respect you feeling that way, but it just isn’t…it can’t happen.”

“It…can’t,” Bucky says numbly. As often as he’d gone over this moment in his head, finally telling Steve how he felt and getting shot down, he’d never really believed it. It was part of what kept his feelings alive, that Steve somehow would reciprocate. 

Steve clears his throat, too loud in the room. “I’m sorry, but I have feelings for someone else.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says. All of the hope he’d stored up when he’d found out Steve’s nights were spent running on rooftops and with the new man in his life, that maybe Eagle’s feelings for Bucky were a mirror of Steve’s—all of that burns up in his chest like paper. 

“I hope you understand, I’m flattered, but it just won’t work.” Steve smiles. His face is swollen from the beating, but it’s definitely the fake one he uses to hide his real feelings. 

“Sure,” Bucky says, shifting in bed and accidentally pressing the tender end of his stump against the sling. He bites back a curse at the sudden flash of pain. “Maybe you can leave me alone now.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve says and turns to go. 

“Wait,” Bucky says, suddenly desperate to know. “Who is it? The person you have feelings for?”

Steve just nods at him before slipping past the curtain, leaving it fluttering in his wake. 

Bucky chews on Steve’s admission, that he has feelings for someone. 

It should be him. 

But if it was, this second confession would have gone differently. Steve wouldn’t have had to let him down gently, because they’d finally be on the same page. 

Bucky doesn’t have anything to hang onto anymore. 

*

He spends the appropriate amount of time in this post-op ward, keeping his arm elevated when they tell him to and trying not to provide commentary when they change his dressing.

If he wasn’t the patient, he’d say this is a pretty positive amputation. He still has his elbow and a little— enough of his forearm to adapt fairly easily. He snorts, flexing his arm to feel the muscles protest. It’s still kind of bullshit, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice about it. 

After a few days he’s cleared to leave, both because he knows how to change the dressing and they’re sick of him trying to do things for himself. Nurses really do make the worst patients. 

It’s been quiet in the Stark hospital. Sam and Natasha had come by to see him, Sam more than Natasha and his visits more uplifting. He doesn’t see Steve again. 

The space is for the best, he knows it is. It doesn’t make it easier, though, to know that Steve can cut him out so quickly and without a second thought. 

On that thought he pushes himself out of bed, carefully swinging his feet to the floor to be sure he has his equilibrium. The last thing he wants to do is stand up and fall over, then catch himself with the residual limb. 

He slowly shuffles his way to the bathroom. The scrub pants he’s wearing are a little too short, leaving his ankles exposed to the chill of the room, but the tiny bathroom’s heated floor is welcome. 

Stark must expect to spend a lot of time in his own infirmary, but Bucky appreciates it as he curls his socked toes against the tile. He changes out of the hospital pyjamas into his own clothes, his shirt feeling looser than when he’d worn it in here. 

He avoids the mirror, leaving his pyjamas mostly folded beside the sink before heading back out. 

Natasha’s waiting in his room, his boots in hand. 

He takes them with thanks, and sits down to put them on. They’re slip ons, thankfully making this simpler. Just another thing he’s going to need to re-learn. 

“So what’d you say to him,” Natasha asks as she watches him tug on his boots. 

“Who,” Bucky says. 

“Steve,” Natasha says. She leans against the bedrail with one hip. “He’s been quiet. Almost like he’s moping.” 

Bucky frowns, reaching up to shake the mess of his hair out. Without the right products, it’s gone from wavy to uncontrollable. 

“Can I,” Natasha says, holding a hand out, and he lets her braid it for him. The scrape of her fingers against his scalp is relaxing.

“I told him how I felt,” Bucky says finally, closing his eyes while she braids. “For the second time. He said he can’t. So whatever he’s moping about, it’s not me.” 

“You told him,” Natasha says, fingers stilling in his hair. “When?” 

“On the roof,” Bucky says. “I thought he was Eagle then, so it doesn’t count as me professing anything. But then here, I told him and he says— he says thanks for saving me, but I don’t love you back. So now I know.” 

Natasha’s quiet, resuming braiding before she speaks again. “Do you know what kind of tech we have in place to protect our identities?”

“The masks, sure,” Bucky says, opening his eyes again. 

“Beyond that. Even in here, none of those nurses know who you are except for your code name. To them, you’re Robin.” She ties off the braid with an elastic she sources from thin air. “We have a masking tech to make you look like someone else, so as far as he knew, you were.” 

“Were what?” 

“Someone else,” Natasha says. “Robin, vigilante with pretty shitty luck.” 

“That’s—” Bucky stops himself, and sighs. He can’t believe this means anything, can’t let himself hope it could be different if he says it just one more time. “Shitty luck is right. I’m just tired.” 

“Sure,” Natasha says. “You want me to call you a car?” 

“I’m all right,” Bucky says, waving the offer off, then has second thoughts. “Yeah, actually. I’d appreciate that.” 

She nods, types something into her phone and looks at him. “You gonna be okay? Want me to tell Sam to go with you?” 

“No thanks,” Bucky says instantly, and Natasha laughs. 

She lets him leave the infirmary on his own. 

He doesn’t have to sign any paperwork— probably part of the secret identity thing— but they do make him use a special elevator that has laminated instructions on how to remove the mask that he’s apparently been wearing the entire time he’s been in here. He peels it off with some relief, not realizing how much the mesh has been weighing on him until it’s gone. Setting it carefully in the small receptacle in the corner of the elevator, he turns just in time to see the doors open into the lobby. 

Outside, he stands in front of the building for a couple of seconds, long enough to realize he doesn’t want to take the car. With a silent apology to Natasha, he carefully slides his residual limb into his jacket pocket and heads for the subway. 

The weather is decent, the familiar heat of the afternoon sun warm on his head and shoulders. It’s enough that he almost takes the line that goes through Williamsburg instead of Park Slope, so used to going to work this time of day instead of home. That’s over, though, and he has no expectation of ever going that way again. 

In the subway, no one looks at him twice. It’s slow going, navigating everything with a single hand. Enroute, he leaves his phone in his pocket and thinks about what he needs to grab from the apartment instead. A couple changes of clothes, his charger, maybe his computer. Monty’s offer to stay is still good, and from there Bucky can figure out his next steps. 

The apartment’s dark when he walks in, curtains drawn and otherwise undisturbed from the last time he’d seen it. He doesn’t look for any signs of Steve and heads straight to his room. In his own space, his shoulders finally drop the tension he’s been holding onto since learning Steve was missing. It aches deep in his muscles, but this has to be better than it was. 

He pulls out his phone to text Natasha that he’d made it back safely even without the car, but his phone flips out of his hand. Scrambling to catch it one-handed, he just manages to slap it out of the air so it lands on his bed. Bucky curses, because this kind of thoughtless clumsiness is not what he wants his future to look like. 

Gingerly he picks up his phone and sees he’s managed to open his email app during his struggles, right to an offer for an interview for the asthma education clinic. It’s in a week, enough time for him to practice and adapt. 

At least one part of his life isn’t shot to shit. 

Grabbing the dirty mug off his dresser, he opens his door to return it to the kitchen. He doesn’t notice Steve’s sitting on the couch until he speaks.

“A few years ago,” Steve says, startling Bucky into dropping the mug he was bringing back to the kitchen. It falls to the rug on the floor but doesn’t break. 

They both look at it, then look back at each other. 

Steve starts again, clasping his hands between his knees. “A few years ago, I came to grips with never getting what I want. That you’d always be a part of my life, but not in the way I wanted.” 

He shifts on the couch, gaze flickering to the mug and then settling on Bucky’s face. 

“So I figured I’d be here as long as you let me, whatever that looked like.”

Bucky reaches for the chair behind him with his good hand, until he can sink into it. He blinks slowly. It’s weird to hear the words he’s been thinking all this time come out of Steve’s mouth, to see the same ache he’s felt on Steve’s face. 

“And then you tell me how you used to feel,” Steve says. He lifts his hands up to press against his mouth, speaking through them like what he’s saying hurts. “Like I’ve missed my chance at us.” 

“I wasn’t saying that to you,” Bucky breaks in. At the time, he’d been saying it to himself. He’d desperately wanted to be over Steve, even as he’d been drawn to someone who was so much like him it’s almost impossible he didn’t see it. 

“All those jokes and you making fun of me, it felt like old times.” Steve rubs at his face. “I could pretend you knew it was me doing this stupid thing, that we were in this together again. And then when you said  _ that—” _

Bucky stands up abruptly, turning away from Steve to face the kitchen, the dishes drying on the rack beside the sink. “And you couldn’t have taken the mask off then, said hey surprise Bucky, the feeling’s mutual?” 

“Would that have been a good moment?” Steve asks softly. 

“When you knew I didn’t know who Eagle was,” Bucky starts saying to the kitchen cabinets, but just leaves it hanging in the air. He both does and doesn’t want to know what Steve was thinking, if he’d been keeping secrets on purpose. 

“The second time we met at night,” Steve says. “I tried to tell you. Not hard enough, but I did. There were so many almosts; the first night you spotted me, when you were asking about my project. Then Stark told me I couldn’t, not if I wanted to keep you safe. It was my bullshit to deal with.” 

Bucky snorts, turning back to Steve, who’s looking at him hopefully from the couch. Steve’s bullshit has always been Bucky’s bullshit. 

“For it to have gone on that long—” Steve stops, pressing his hands together between his knees. “It’s my fault. And I couldn’t ask you to believe me if I told you how I felt, that it was the truth even if everything else wasn’t. Would you have believed that?” 

They go quiet. 

“I got used to you not having time for me, putting your job ahead of me. I was even okay with you dating someone new,” Bucky says. “And you think you playing superhero would be the thing that drove us apart.”

Steve splays his hands helplessly, gesturing between them like that explains his hesitation. 

“I’m always with you,” Bucky says. “Whether I like it or not.” 

“Buck,” Steve says in a low voice. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” Bucky says. 

Steve stands up, closing the distance between them to press their mouths together. His hands are gentle on Bucky’s face, his lips soft but for the rough spot he’d missed shaving near his lower lip. 

Heat blooms in Bucky’s face, the back of his neck, every place they’re touching a spark of want. He sighs, sinking into Steve’s body as Steve leans into him. 

Steve’s hand curls around the back of his head, tugging him closer even as Bucky raises his hand to clutch at the zipper of Steve’s jacket to hold him there. He nudges Steve’s mouth open and at the touch of his tongue against Steve’s, can’t help the sound he makes. 

They’re lost in each other, in the inevitability of the kiss, of their bodies finally fitting together .

“I didn’t know,” Steve says again when they reluctantly separate. He settles their foreheads together and lowers one hand to grasp Bucky’s wrist to keep them close. “And then you showed up for that rescue.”

“You knew that was me?” Bucky says quietly. He’s had his left sleeve shoved into his jacket pocket since he got home, concealing the link between him and the Robin identity. 

“Natasha,” Steve says simply, rubbing his thumb against the side of Bucky’s arm. “Told me you were Robin, then called me a car.” 

“Of course she did,” Bucky says. She’d probably planned for them to share the ride over, accelerating the timeline that they still managed to figure out. 

Steve slides his hand up to link his fingers with Bucky’s. “I thought that was it for me. I was going to die there, and I’d never have told you how I felt. Never taken a chance.”

“You dumb shit,” Bucky says softly. He means it for both of them. “You mean we’ve both been circling this this whole time?”

“We’re both idiots,” Steve says, leaning back in to press a single solid kiss on Bucky’s mouth. It’s the start of something good. 

*

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

Moving day is bright and hot, a flashback to summer over Labour Day weekend. It’s better than rain, but even relegated to watch-the-truck duty, Bucky’s shirt sticks to him in all the wrong ways. Three flights up, the windows in their new apartment are open, and he can hear Sam, Monty and Steve from down here. He can pick out Steve’s laugh, and he’s incredibly fond of the sound. 

This is the first place that’s theirs, a place they chose to live in together, that they’re moving into as a couple. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, close to Bucky’s favourite running routes with a shorter commute for both of them. There are also at least four restaurants within a block that Bucky wants to try as soon as possible.

Natasha strolls back over, whatever business she’d been dealing with over the phone effectively handled. She slides her phone into the back pocket of her ripped jeans.

“Isn’t this your move?” Natasha asks, flicking a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Shouldn’t you be one of the ones actually moving stuff?”

“I got kicked off the carry crew,” Bucky says without an ounce of regret. He’s gotten good with his left arm over the past couple of months, learning to grip with his elbow and capable of carrying boxes, if a bit awkwardly. It doesn’t mean he isn’t smart about it. He’d accidentally-on-purpose dropped the box with Steve’s noisiest kitchen appliance in it, and that was it for both him and the blender. 

“Poor thing,” Natasha says, joining him to lean against the side of the borrowed pickup truck. She looks at the side of his face. “Stark still wants to build you an arm, you know.”

“I know,” Bucky says. 

They look up at the third floor windows of the burgundy-painted brownstone, probably imagining different things. 

“I’m just not sure that’s what I want to do.”

“Just saying,” Natasha says, but she presses just a little into his shoulder so he hears what she’s not saying. 

“What, you just here to stand around and look pretty?” Clint says when he comes up to them on the sidewalk. He has an iced drink in each hand and passes one to Natasha in a move that reminds Bucky he’s an idiot for ever letting the two of them meet. 

“He’s not talking to me,” Natasha says, stirring the drink violently with her straw. 

“This is the kind of harassment I miss from night shift,” Bucky says to no one, then raises his eyebrows so Clint can see them over the top of his sunglasses. “You, I could do without.”

“Am I not here on a Saturday to help you move in with your boyfriend?” Clint asks, taking a noisy sip of his drink. “After getting just four hours of sleep, too.”

“That’s a nap,” Natasha says, at the same time Bucky says that Clint hasn’t done much more than show up.

“Who’s napping,” Sam says as he comes down the stairs, Monty close behind. 

“Clint,” Natasha and Bucky say together, drowning out Clint's  _ nobody. _

“Fresh legs,” then, Steve says, clapping Clint on the shoulder when he passes, but not stopping until he’s able to curl one arm around Bucky’s neck and press a kiss to his hair. He’s on Bucky’s left side, careful of his arm even though they’ve definitely tested how strong it is through a variety of activities. 

“Hi,” Bucky tells him, turning his face to Steve and angling for a kiss. Steve indulges him, pecks him on the lips and settles his arm more firmly around Bucky's shoulders. 

“No time for smooch breaks,” Sam says, jumping up into the truck bed to shove the last of the boxes closer to the tailgate. “Load up, boys.” 

“Look, I’m helping,” Clint says to Bucky, setting his cup down before picking up a box. “Happy now?” 

Steve winks at Bucky when he steps in front of him to grab the last box, and nods at Monty. “Thanks for your help today.” 

“You got it,” Monty says. He works tonight so Bucky didn’t expect to see him out today, but it made a long day a lot shorter. 

Unsurprisingly, the Howlies love Steve, teasing him as much as they’d tease Bucky. 

“This is a good look for you,” Monty says, tipping his head back to the apartment. “Being happy.” 

The hospital ran his tank dry until there was nothing left, and he doesn’t regret leaving. His time on the night shift brought a really strange opportunity to get to know Steve again, to set the foundation for a life together, but he’d also never go back to it. Now his nights are filled with something else, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything. He doesn’t say any of that, but Monty looks like he knows. 

He clasps Bucky’s shoulder for a second before saying his goodbyes with a promise to attend the housewarming Bucky’s sure Steve is already planning. There’s a decent sized deck space that looks out over the courtyard between the buildings and a grill already set up, perfect for a late-summer get together. 

On Bucky’s other side, Natasha’s phone chirps. She pulls it out of her pocket, flipping through the alerts with a serious face. 

“It’s work,” Natasha says simply, and seconds later Steve appears in the door to the brownstone, phone in hand. 

“Work?” Bucky asks. 

“Yeah, sorry, a little emergency, Natasha and I—” Steve starts, then glances around for any curious listeners. “You know. Freedom business.” 

“Go,” Bucky says, because he can finish up here. 

“See you later,” Steve says and takes two long steps forward to pull him in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Bucky says and watches him go. “Have fun, be careful, don’t die.” 

Steve walks backwards to Natasha’s motorcycle, sliding a helmet on at the last second so he doesn’t break eye contact. Once he’s on the bike Natasha revs the engine and they go save lives. 

“Doesn’t get easier, does it,” Sam says, joining Bucky on the sidewalk and handing the apartment keys over. Clint’s following close behind, grabbing his drink out of the truck and slamming the tailgate shut.

They watch the motorcycle pick up speed down the one-way street. 

“I keep thinking it will, but I still worry,” Bucky says. One of Stark’s teams had managed to shut down the last of Stane’s operations last month, but it hadn’t been the end of finding or fixing problems. Steve thrives on it, though, chasing down leads like he really is the world’s greatest detective. 

“The beer and post-move pizza are gonna be delayed, aren’t they,” Sam says, pulling his phone out to check on his messages. 

“Think so,” Bucky says. 

Sam looks up from his phone, face carefully blank. “Sorry man,” Sam says, gesturing at the truck. “Gotta get this truck back before it gets dark.” 

“Sure, you go and...return your truck,” Clint says doubtfully. “I’ll just go and...stay in Brooklyn? Avoid Brooklyn and go to Queens? Where are you  _ returning _ the truck to?” 

“Bed-Stuy,” Sam says before Bucky can lie. 

Clint looks at them for a long minute. Bed-Stuy is his neighbourhood, but he doesn’t ask for a ride back home before he walks off. 

“He suspects something,” Bucky says once Clint is far enough down the street not to hear. 

“No shit,” Sam says. “He’s not stupid.” 

“You think he knows you're going after his neighbours? The Russians?” 

“He’s not stupid,” Sam says again. He flips the truck keys around in one hand. “So are you coming this time?”

Bucky hesitates for only a second. 

“Sure,” he says, and it feels like everything’s fallen into place. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art and Banner for Nightshift fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27406204) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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